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by voxane



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Angst, Eventual rating bump, Genderfluid Keith (Voltron), Hunk is the best roommate anyone could have, Hurt/Comfort, Jk lance is v good bro, Keith 'how do I feelings' Kogane, M/M, Mutual Pining, Nonbinary Pidge | Katie Holt, Rock star Shiro, Slow Burn, and Lance is here, and per usual pidge is the smartest person in the room at any given time, band au, bar au, coffee shop AU, escort AU, why are you booing me im right
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-22
Updated: 2018-11-26
Packaged: 2019-06-14 17:45:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 30,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15394071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voxane/pseuds/voxane
Summary: Keith gets kicked out of art school with little to his name and even less of a plan. He manages to find a job and place to sleep, and even shady side gig to make ends meet. It gets him through the day, but exhaustion soaks him to the bone.But there's a handsome man with a coffee and just the right song to keep him going and he's the only thing Keith can think about - even though it only leaves him feeling more lost and confused.--Track 7:  A guitar riff like a whip snapped through the air, like it was trying to call him specifically. Keith recognized it in notes, and his stiletto tapped in time with the drumsticks all on its own. The Shiro-infected smile still on his face stretched so far it made his checks burn. Keith couldn’t tame it if he wanted to. He knew Shiro was grinning just like him and just the idea, the photo negative of Shiro’s smile branded into his mind, left him eager for it.Shiro tried to snuff his smile by biting his bottom lip, his face flush with boyish charm. He couldn’t hold it long breaking out into a smile, all teeth.“It’s your song.”





	1. Born to Run

**Author's Note:**

> This is actually a 'recycled' fic that I had started in yoi, but didn't have the planning skills to know where I was going with it. But now this a tighter cast of characters and armed with an ~outline~ I'm feeling 10x more confident about it for Voltron! Please enjoy, and comment if you're digging it. I'm fueled by the attention.
> 
> Also I'll be linking songs throughout for the mood of it, but I also have a Spotify playlist for the fic you can peep at the end!

Keith was tired. The kinda tired that soaked through the bone, and made his knit dress feel like chainmail on his worn out frame. The kind of tired that drifted into something painful. He couldn’t even close his eyes, and pretend he was anywhere else, lest the throbbing in the front of his head beat even stronger.  
  
And Keith would like to pretend he was anywhere else. There was nothing more soul sucking than the energy of a grungy bus at 5 am, worn down by the tired eyes of third shift soldiers trying to adjust to the too bright sun. It was surreal, like the air here was from a past life, or past time and not really meant for any of the 5 people unlucky enough to be awake to breathe. Keith was so acutely aware of every cough, murmur, and shifting of bodies over worn and cracked vinyl. It was purgatory.  
  
He caught his face casted back at in him in the bus window, skewed in the reflection as the bus pulled through a tunnel. Even in that glimpse, watercolor shades of purple and yellow were vibrant all over his eyes.  
  
Maybe, he had to admit, he did have an “attitude problem”. Maybe it was easier to swing out anger on a stranger who wanted to make a big deal that he wasn’t wearing pants. Maybe beating up some drunk punk gave him solace the rolling shit show of the past 24 hours that was his life. The black eye was the least of his worries.  
  
First of all - he was homeless. Getting expelled from art school kinda put a huge kink in his five year plan. The kind of ‘fuck it - pack your bags and skip town’ kind of kink. So all he had was a Jansport stuffed to bursting with every article of clothing he could shove into it. Keith wasn’t sure if it was just the exhaustion in his bones, or some metaphorical bullshit, but it felt more like a ton of brick than a handful of tight T-shirts. He pulled the bag tighter to his chest, when he realized some dick was staring at him.  
  
Maybe it’d be a two fight kinda night. He was about to open his mouth to ask what the dudes problem was, when the tan, fluffy haired stranger across from him broke the silence.  
  
“You look like shit.” He said, with a coy look.  
  
News at 11. Keith scoffed and rubbed underneath his nose.  
  
“At least I have an excuse.”  
  
“Eh. No need to be jealous. Some of us were born with it.” The jackass gave him the cheesiest grin. The kind that too drunk dudes who thought maybe there was something for them underneath his skirts. Well, not quite. It was as obnoxious, not nearly as hungry. It was familiar in a way that made Keith feel like he made a mistake.  
  
“Waitaminute,” He started, leaning into Keith with an examining eye. “I know you! You’re Keith! You were in professor Slav’s 3D design course, it was awful! It’s me, Lance! ”  The man uncrossed his legs, letting his body melt into the vinyl bus seats. He looked at Keith like he was an old friend.

Keith must’ve forgot something.  
  
“A lot of people took entry level 3D design,” He said, turning his face to look past the windshield. Like he was familiar with anything around him, and just wasn’t trying to avoid eye contact.  
  
“Dude.” He leaned again, frantically motioning Keith to do the same. Begrudgingly, he obliged. “You uh, stayed with me all spring weekend.” He shifted again. “Like, in bed.”  
  
“Uh.” Keith was starting to get bits and pieces of a vodka drenched memory come back to him. He really didn’t want to remember.  
  
“Oh come on, you were my first dude can you be cool about this for like a _second._ ” Lance was raising his voice loud enough that the few other lives on this bus were now very tuned in to Lance going over his intimate history. Which involved him, so no one needed to hear about that.  
  
“Fine, fine sorry Lance. I....I remember.” Keith melted into the bus seat. Maybe if he closed his eyes he could disappear. He could choose to forget that yes, at one point Drunk Keith thought that Lance McClain of all motherfuckers was acceptable tail.  
  
It’s in the past now.

“What are you even doin’ here, man? You’re a long way from G-Arts.” Lance lowered his voice to something soft, laced with a kind of concern that coming from Lance meant it was _serious._

“I don’t go to G-Arts anymore.” Keith wanted to keep the mourning out of his voice, but he could feel it oozing through his gritted teeth despite himself.  
  
“That’s rough buddy. I mean, been there.” Lance folded his arms behind his head, looking at Keith like it was no big deal.  
  
It was a little relieving, that at least someone thought so.  
  
“Well, if you’re not busy my breakfast date stood me up. We could catch up if you want?” He said. Keith made a face like Lance  audibly farted.  
  
“I’m not trying to hit on you, jeez. There’s a very special lady in my life, I’ll have you know.” He folded his legs, one eye watching the passing street lights.  
  
“So your girlfriend ditched you and I’m the next best thing?” Keith almost smiled. The right side of his face twitched. Teasing some dude he barely knew was so banal, after everything he had been through.  
  
“Look,” Lance ran a hand through his hair, clearly getting worked up. “I’m just out here trying to be a _nice guy_ and you’re looking a gift horse right in my perfect teeth.” He huffed.  
  
“I don’t think you know what that phrase means.” Keith deadpanned. On cue, his stomach growled, and Lance raised an inquisitive eyebrow. Even Keith’s pride knew that this was no time to turn down a free meal. Even in poor company. “Fine.”  
  
“Good, cause we’re at my stop,” Lance stood, and Keith didn’t realize how lanky he was until all he stretched his arms straight above his head. “C’mon.” He twirled his hand around, and blinked at Keith expectantly.  
  
Against better judgement, Keith followed.

“See? It’s not so bad not being difficult. Keep it up and I might get you coffee.” Lance grinned like smiles were his own language, like it his face was made to be stretched that way. Something about it was infectious, and Keith almost smiled again. Almost.  
  
“Don’t hold your breath, hotshot.”

* * *

 

“So lemme get this straight.” Lance talked around french toast sticks like he wasn’t a monster for doing so, and didn’t bother to swallow before he kept talking. “You just bounced from school without a plan. Like, _Good luck Keith_ hopped on a bus and hoped you’d win the lottery on the way?” Lance squinted his eyes with a level of incredulousness Keith certainly deserved.  
  
“Don’t get me wrong, I get it. Just.” He finally shut his trap to focus his energy on his breakfast, chasing it with too loud gulps of orange juice. “You’re lucky I found you.”  
  
“I wasn’t going to _starve_ or anything.” Not that the voracious chomps of hash browns were doing anything for his case.  
  
“Yeah, but,” Lance looked at him for a minute in silence. It was the first time since Keith met him that he wasn’t making noise in some kinda way. “You didn’t know where you would’ve ended up. I think here’s gonna be good for you.”  
  
Keith raise an incredulous eyebrow as he stabbed a sausage on his plate with a fork.

“I was kinda in your shoes once. I got crazy fired when I dropped out of school. My buddy got me a job at his restaurant and things got better. And I mean, you’re no _Lance the Spectacular_ but I think maybe you can make it work out too.” 

  
Keith hummed noncommittally around his fork. He knew Lance had an expectant expression plastered on his face, so he scanned past hunched over hungover college kids to really drink in the place. Just stepping inside building, Keith could tell this place was very _Lance._ It was loud and vibrant. The walls screamed in bold yellows and reds, and bedazzled in all kinds of “unique”, or kitschy art pieces. It was bustling, full of lively energy that Keith could already tell just over breakfast Lance thrived on.

Every waitress greeting him by name and a bat of their eyelashes probably didn’t hurt either.

It made Keith tired.

“What if I’m unqualified?” Keith accentuated his eye contact with Lance by jabbing the air with his fork.

“I know you can make a drink. We met at a theatre kids party where you made Mai Tais in solo cups.” Lance pointed a french toast stick for added measure. “Pearls before swine.” Keith’s face fell in a pout. Of course he knew how to make a drink. If you wanted anything other than Natty Ice, or Franzia straight from the bag in college you had to be resourceful.

Also, a great back up plan if art didn’t work out so great.  
  
“Great, then you’re _Gucci_ .” Lance responded, reading the expression on Keith’s face like it said “FORMER BARTENDER” in bold font. “Hunk’s lookin’ for a roommate too. So it looks like you got real lucky today, kid. Been here for an hour and things are already looking up.” Lance had that cocky, lopsided grin on his face. Keith had to bite his bottom lip to keep from pouting.  
  
“Oh no, no need to thank me. No need to remind me how, wonderful, resourceful, accommodating, _handsome.”_  
  
“CHECK, please.”

* * *

They walked to the restaurant, so cleverly titled _Main Street Pub_ . All the buildings down the street were in different shapes and sizes, as if a child playing _Sim City_ laid out the place rather than a civil engineer. Keith blinked a few times to make sure it wasn’t a hallucination. He hadn’t slept for like, 48 hours so he wasn’t counting it out.

Time seem to have forgot this town. All the buildings down the street were lined with the same sun worn brick, and glimpses into any corner stores were all muddy blurs of pea and mustard tones straight out of the 70s.  
  
It was nothing like the oppressive buildings of the city, that blinded even at night through omnipresent neon. Keith kinda missed it, in a way that made him nauseous.  
  
“Well, here’s the place!” Lance stomped his foot, and spread out his arms in front of a sun stained brick building that looked like any other along the street. The windows were dirty, tinted or maybe both. The only thing Keith could make out was the vague shape of tables framed by pastel yellow curtains. He didn’t bother to hide his unimpressed expression.  
  
Lance, for once, didn’t snap out a retort. Rather he just reached a hand for the back of his neck and looked at the sky with a small blush on his face.

“It’s a work in progress.” He shrugged, looking sheepish. Keith looked at Lance, then to the window again. Window Keith, even with softened edges liked bedraggled, and a little broken. The bags under his eyes were almost as dark as his bruises. His dress didn’t fit him nearly as well as he thought it did, and he just now noticed a tear in the collar.  
  
He supposed he couldn’t judge a work in progress, really.  
  
“C’mon, let’s get this over with.” He sighed, pushing his way through the door with Lance scrambling in after him.  
  
“Oh Lance, you’re early that’s a pleasant surp-” A large man, clad in apron and oven mitts stopped dead in his tracks as he eyed Keith tip to toe, and then again. He wondered if everyone Lance knew would greet him with the same incredulous squint. “You’re not Lance.”  
  
Keith rolled his eyes, and plopped himself on a nearby bar stool, opting to let Lance explain himself.

“I come here with everything but bells on, and bring you a bartender and I don’t even get service with a smile. You wound me.”  
  
“Wait wait wait, you need to slow down.” Hunk, if this was the guy lanc was talking about earlier, waved his oven mitt clad hands frantically in front of his face before jumping to the shrill sound of a bell. “The cinnamon buns!” He yelped, turning heel to scramble into the kitchen. Lance looked toward Keith and rolled his eyes.  
  
“I’ll fill him in. Help yourself to anything at the bar. I’ll have Hunk put it on my tab.” He smiled to himself like there was inside joke Keith wasn't in on. Whatever. It gave Keith a moment of peace. He got behind the bar to make himself an old fashion and really take in the place.  
  
The place was a total dive, but not in a bad way. The whole place was done in a cherry colored wood that was warm and sweet as the bottom shelf whiskey poured for his drink. The walls had a few paintings, but they weren’t screaming for attention like the ones in the diner. The colors rich, but not overstated. They looked as staple here as the dart board, jukebox, or the liquor itself. A song crackled over the speakers, soft enough that he could hear Lance and Hunk’s lively conversation in the kitchen. He leaned over the counter, plopping a cherry on top of the drink. He takes a long drought, letting the syrupy drink slide down his throat and closed his eyes softly. With nothing but sweetness on his tongue, and bouncy piano keys echoing off the hardwood floors, he breathes.

 

[ _Baby this town rips the bones from your back_ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=klggwjz8OtI)

[ _It's a death trap, it's a suicide rap_ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=klggwjz8OtI)

[ _We gotta get out while we're young_ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=klggwjz8OtI)

[ _Cause tramps like us, baby we were born to run_ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=klggwjz8OtI)

 

He’s not surprised to be staring down at ice cubes in an empty rocks glass when finally blinked the burning from behind his eyes. Nor is he surprised to see Lance and Hunk across from him on bar stools, even if he didn’t hear them come in.

“So, Keith?” Hunk starts. Keith blinks at him in acknowledgment. “Admittedly, I’m skeptical. Like, nothin ‘gainst you. I just don’t _know_ you. Lance has been in a pain in my butt since elementary school and even he doesn’t-” Lance elbowed Hunk in the side, and he let out a little ‘oof’ before giving Keith apologetic eyes.  
  
“Sorry. I ramble sometimes. A lot of sometimes. But I guess the long story short is, Lance vouches for you so. I that means I do to.” He grinned ear to ear, before bringing into something that was to small for his face. “If you want to, I mean.”

The whole conversation made the alarms in Keith’s brain to trigger fight or flight. Maybe both at once. Grab his bags and get back on a bus and keep riding until he couldn't go any further. His heart beat out of his chest, and right as he was about to grab his backpack by the strap the door chimed again.  
  
Keith whipped his head around. like he was drowning in his thoughts, only able to breathe once they flooded out the door, twisting like a river through the legs of the figure in the doorway.

“Woah, I didn’t know it was a party here. " This man, he was different from anyone else Keith had met so far. He didn't' have that teenage gangliness of Lance, or the odd way Hunk carried extra weight in his cheeks that he hadn’t gown into. This man looked like, well, a man. He walked into the bar with confident strides. You would've thought he owned the place.  He had that air of leadership that made Keith straighten his back a little bit without even realizing it. 

Not to mention a jawline that could cut diamonds.  But that was beside the point.  
  
Keith knew he was staring. He was still deciding how much he cared.  
  
"New face!" His smile was the warmest thing in the building, which was saying something.  
  
"Sorry it's not much to look at." Keith grumbled, rubbing the swollen skin under his eyes.  
  
"Nothin' wrong with it at all." The man pointed at his tattered collar, and back up straight to his eyes. "Rebel, Rebel. I like it." He laughed and it bubbled up something in Keith's gut that made him acutely aware of the contents of his stomach. Keith kept staring, because he was so sure there was no mix of letters in his brain that'd make words at the moment. He was so thankful the stranger found something else to talk about so he didn't vomit all over the bar counter.  
  
"Is that an old-fashioned?" He examined the orange rind and cherry floating in the whiskey tinted ice water as if it was something foreign to him. "Lance didn't make that for you." He said it definitively.  
  
"I can make my own drink." Keith tried to keep his tone level, but it came out a little challenging. The man only grinned wider.  
  
"Please say you're hiring hi-" The stranger took another look at Keith, and Keith darted his eyes to his drink. "I'm sorry! I didn't ask for your name."  
  
Keith pried his eyes off of the shifting melting cubes up to the other man's. "Keith." He barely choked it out.  
  
"Keith." He said the name like it was coated in something he enjoyed the taste of. "It's nice to meet you. You can call me Shiro." He extended his hand out, and Keith was perplexed, but made sure to grab it before he thought too hard.  A handshake. People shook hands. It was normal. He was normal.  
  
None of this was remotely normal.  
  
"Tell me you're hiring him Hunk. You need someone here who can make a drink that has more than two ingredients." Shiro turned to Hunk, still beaming.  
  
"I resent that!" Lance pouted, arms folded across his chest.  
  
"I'm not wrong, though," Shiro said, bemusement dripping off every word. "And we can't let Pidge behind the bar again. They almost killed Coran that one time."  
  
Keith squinted. This was ridiculous. A bunch of goddamn strangers were arguing over him because he could mix one of the most classic alcoholic beverages known to mankind. He huffed, and it drew everyone's eyes to him. He honed in on Shiro. It was just the easiest.  
  
"You don't even know me." Keith crossed his arms over his chest. "You don't know if I'm good at this."  
  
"Okay, Rebel." Shiro grinned, settling into the bar stool across from him. Shiro, at eye level, was somehow different. He smirked at Keith in a way he didn't think anyone else could see. There was a glint in Shiro's eyes, and Keith was sure was just for him. "Make me a daiquiri."  
  
Lance groaned from across the room. "We can't make frozen drinks, Shiro. You know tha-" Lance's jaw went slack as he watched watch Keith deftly grab silver rum off the shelf in one hand and the simple syrup from the well.  
  
Shiro looked over to Lance with a self-satisfied grin while Keith worked through his drink, straining it into a cocktail glass in a matter of a minute.  
  
"You work fast," Shiro said, as he brought his eyes back to Keith. _That makes two of us_ , a thought he most certainly kept to himself. Everyone watched in rapt attention as Shiro sipped on the drink, his eyes lighting up the moment the liquid hit the back of his throat.  
  
"It's the best damn daiquiri I've ever had. You're good, Keith. Real good." Shiro leaned back, offering the delicate glass to a very a skeptical Lance who wrinkled his nose.  
  
"Oh come on," Shiro smiled. "It's not as frou frou as you like your drinks but I think you'll enjoy it." Lance twisted his mouth into a shape that made him look juvenile, but he still took the glass in hand to take the most tentative sip. If he wanted to remain petulant,  his cover was as blown as his eyes. Lance’s brows furrowed as he shoved the drink over to Hunk, spilling some of it on his vest.  
  
"It's alright." He offered Keith. He looked over to Hunk who was far to busy mourning his clothes to take a sip, until he noticed all the eyes on him.  
  
"Okay, fine, fine. I'm drinking." He drained what was left of the cocktail, and beamed. "Woah. Yeah, no. Welcome aboard, Keith."  
  
Keith frowned. He wasn't used to this kind of attention, and it felt like it was giving him a rash. He wasn't some god damn show pony.  He kept his frowning face tight on the bar until a clap on the shoulder jolted him up to Shiro's eyes again.  
  
"I'm excited to get to know you." Shiro's face was soft, and it rattled memories in Keith's brain he tried to forget.  
  
"Yeah." He said. Shiro lingered for a moment that felt like an eternity before turning away.  
  
"Was it the refrigerator or the freezer that was giving you trouble this time?" He asked Hunk, before disappearing behind the kitchen doors with Hunk tailing close behind, muttering.  
  
"You know a picture would last longer," Lance chided, hunched over the bar nearby. His face twisted into a cheshire cat grin. " _Rebel_ ."  
  
"Dude, shut up." Keith groaned.

“Don’t be like that. We’re gonna be teammates now!” Lance cooed, Keith was trying to churn out an insult, hot on his tongue before Hunk came rushing back.  
  
“Aw, Keith I’m sorry.” He gasped, doubled over. “I got distracted with the stupid fridge. Let me show you to your room. Aw, jeez, I didn’t ask if you wanted to.” Hunk ran a hand through his hair, and looked up to Keith with a wounded expression.  
  
Keith looked around the bar once more. He wasn’t sure this was a place he could call ‘home’.  He wasn't sure he'd adjust to Hunk’s tempo, or Lance's volume. Or Shiro's......

Keith thought, for a minute, he could adjust to Shiro.

And his practical brain realized he has an opportunity on a silver platter.

"Yeah." Keith said, slinging his backpack over his shoulder. "I want to." He said it like he believed it.  He doesn't miss the way both of their faces light up. It almost made him want to smile.

"Awesome!" Hunk beamed. "Lemme show you your room. And uh, get your hopes down now."

Keith actually did smile. "I'm sure it's better than nothing."

Hunk smiled back, and it's like a reflection of his heart. Keith could've done a lot worse for roommates. Then his face got tentative.

"So I've been meaning to ask," Hunk paused, and looked Keith up and down again. "Um, are you a _lady_ Keith or...?"

Keith did his best not to bristle in response. "It's....I'm whatever Keith you want me to be," He was surprised to hear Lance scoff across the room.

"Calm down Hunk. It's a fashion statement right?" Lance raised a curious eyebrow. And well, I guess that was the easiest way to explain it. He nodded.

"I knew it. Pretty boys are so _en vogue_ right now." It was the most sympathetic Keith has ever seen anyone to his manner of dress. Maybe Keith had Lance pegged wrong all this time.

"Do you think I can pull off floral? Like, I know I'm not _pretty_ pretty, but-" Maybe not.

"You were showing me my room?" Keith turned to Hunk, who was stifling giggles. He tossed a hand over his shoulder to beckon Keith over. He followed Hunk up a cramped, musty stairwell, hidden away from the restaurant floor. Hunk rest his hand on an old brass knob covered in blotchy green stains. He turned to Keith expectantly and smiled so wide, it crinkled around the eyes a little bit. He pushed the door open with a whining creak.

"Welcome home, Keith."

* * *

 

 


	2. Accept Yourself

Hunk, for all intents and purposes, was a decent roommate.

Like _really_ decent. He gave Keith all the alone time he needed. He wasn't loud, he cleaned up after himself, and when he wanted conversation it was genial and didn't overstay its welcome. Hunk also gave Keith his blessing to have boys over, as long as he got a heads up- A service Keith never asked for, and rolled his eyes into the back of his head. Lance texted him a _'You're Welcome'._ Fucking Lance the blabbermouth.

The only complaint Keith had was Hunk's penchant for baking in the morning before the time was double digits. Keith was an art student. Well, used to be. He didn't believe in before 10 am. The clamor of Hunk’s shitty hand mixer overheating _again_ was enough to peel Keith from his mattress. He dragged himself out of his room, scrubbing the sleep from his eyes, ratty black sweatpants low on his hips as he stepped into Hunk’s too bright kitchen. The plum walls and sudden flash of light made him see spots in the corner of his eyes. Keith knew it'd be rude to grumble at fresh baked scones (especially when he was allowed to eat all of the broken ones) but he couldn't keep the scowl off his face.

"Mornin' Keith!" Hunk grinned as he wiped flour off of his nose. At least he didn't seem to care about Keith's grumpiness. "They're cranberry orange today, SO much better than yesterday’s batch. Allura is going to be so ecstatic. They're gonna taste great with her new Earl Grey."

Keith grabbed one out of the 'unsellable' pile and chomped into it. It was hard to stay mad at Hunk, especially when he baked like a magician. It was hard to believe this scone was made out of store brand flour and eggs.

"These are better." Keith offered, mouth full.

"Right? I'm gonna run them over to Altea as soon as they cool. Allura said she just finished roasting some coffee for us too, which'll be great for lunch. Try and push desserts so we can sell some while the beans are fresh! I won't be there to help open today, but Lance and our other server Pidge will be there. Just...don't ask Pidge anything about the bar." Hunk had spent his whole rant fussing with what seemed like every possible appliance, utensil and cabinet in the kitchen. The moment he mentioned Pidge, he came to a halt. He turned to Keith like his motions were weighed down by purpose. "Please. I mean it."

The only thing Keith knew about this Pidge character was that they've done enough for a soft ban on liquor. Which, was probably something that more people should have.

"That's fine. I barely like having Lance behind the bar." Keith scoffed. Hunk, being a truly decent roommate, brought Keith a mug full of piping hot coffee.

"Just...try and, I dunno, shmooze a little more? Maybe? Friday lunches are some of our best business." The guilt in Hunk’s voice was thick like pulp and he wouldn't look Keith in the eye. Keith frowned into the bottom of his coffee mug. It was a faded shade of berry red, with a chip on the left side. Hunk filled it up, black, as high as he could. He took a long draught from the mug, staring at the cracks in the popcorn ceiling.

He wasn't even mad. Keith knew he wasn't doing great at the customer aspect of this. He could make a hell of a drink but struggled with 'service with a smile', or bartender small talk. People would rather have Lance make them the wrong drink, but at least make a joke out of it. There was something infuriating about it, but Keith _got it._ He was standoffish and it wasn't great for business.

And his tips could use the help too. Seriously, 15% was like hitting the goddamn lottery for Keith.

Which was bad, because he was fucking broke. He was scraping by to pay Hunk for rent. Never mind feeding himself, or new clothes, or a pack of cigarettes. He finally drew his eyes down to Hunk, and he looked like a scolded dog. It made Keith want to roll his eyes and apologize to him all at once.

"We really could use another chair," Keith said. He hoped Hunk understood it was Keith-Speak for 'I understand'.

"Yeah, and a bed frame would be nice for you." Hunk hoisted up his tray of pastries into miss-matched tupperware, but offered Keith a timid smile. It nauseated Keith. He saw tabs open on Hunks laptop for refurbished KitchenAids, and he was putting it aside because Keith couldn't provide himself his own basic needs.

Phenomenal.

It riled up something in him that he needed to smoke out of his body.

"I'm gonna go for walk before we have to open,” Keith said, rising from the table to grab whatever clean clothes he had in his room, and maybe a not-too-crumpled American Spirit if he could get his hands on it.

"I put all the broken ones in the blue tupperware, bring some for Lance and Pidge!"

* * *

Keith had no intention of walking. This town was so overwhelming. It shouldn’t be; it wasn’t even big. It was just so much bizarre squeezed dense into tiny space. He tried to walk around on his own once and it made him feel like he was lost in a rattled snow globe. It was too much for his nerves. He found so much more peace in closing his eyes and reveling in the burning in the back of his lungs.

"That's a nasty habit."

Oh here we fucking go. Keith pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Look-" Keith was surprised not to see anyone around when he opened his eyes. There was a tug on his shirt sleeve. He looked down to a mousy kid, pushing comically large glasses up their button nose.

"You're supposed to be 20 feet away from the building if you wanna smoke." They had a very matter of fact way of speaking. Keith would have appreciated it if it wasn't being used against him.

Keith took a large stride to the left and shrugged his shoulders asking for appraisal.

"19 ft." They looked like the cat that ate the canary, fussing with their glasses again. Keith rolled his eyes and leaned into the nearest stop sign. "19.2 "

"Pidge wait _up,_ " a voice called out, with over dramatic labored breathing out of time with the clunky footsteps.

Yup. That was Lance. And he was wearing a floral button down under his dumb army jacket. Gross. He careened down the street, looking more like a foal growing into their legs than a grown-ass man before doubling over with a hand on Pidge’s shoulder.

"You're Pidge," Keith said flatly. They nudged up their glasses again with a catlike smirk.

"Charmed," they said. Pidge looked at Keith like he was in a slide under a microscope. He didn’t try to hide the sneer on his face. "Sour puss, tacky mullet, skirt that pushes the boundaries of work appropriate."

Keith took a long drag of his cigarette.

Look.

"New hire Bartender Keith Kogane. Former Painting Major at G-Arts, and weekend lover of one Lance McClain." There was a glint in Pidge's eyes that gave away they knew exactly what the hell they were doing.

Clever girl.

Keith sucked his cigarette to the filter and tossed it to the ground.

"Lance, good to see you haven't grown out of running your mouth." Keith punctuated the sentence by grinding his combat boot into his cigarette butt. At least Lance had the decency to blush.

"Look, man, Pidge is my _roommate."_ Lance shrugged as if that was a perfectly adequate answer.

"Don't worry. I have every one of Lance's romantic endeavors cataloged in photographic detail." Pidge grinned at Keith, and he had to wonder if they came in any other flavor than _smug._ "The list isn't long, but it's incriminating."

Lance groaned, shoving his hand into his pocket to grab the key for the pub and jammed into the lock.

"Can we get through a workday without talking about my love life _please?"_ Lance said through gritted teeth as he pushed the door open with a squeal.

"Aw, you promise?" Pidge said in a sing-song tone, trotting behind him. Keith couldn't hide his amused snort.

* * *

Work wasn't awful, despite Keith’s less than hopeful attitude these days. They were busy enough where Pidge and Lance were sectioned, both of them tittering around with very little Keith-harassing downtime. They were both focused on juggling tables, and worked better together than Keith expected. There were a few times where Keith had to help Pidge balance things on their plate (literally and figuratively). A few wrong orders here and there, but nothing that couldn't be smoothed over from " _The McClain Classic_ ". Which was just Lance kissing as much ass as physically possible. Only figuratively. Thank god.

Keith was always thankful for shifts like this, where he was fortressed in his bar. But it'd sure be a lot better if the customers wanted a goddamn drink instead of a conversation. He was getting incredibly tired of people asking him if there were happy hour specials (it was lunch, what do you expect?) and he was tired of people asking him for recommendations not knowing anything they want. He had Hunk's advice ringing in his head as a group of girls rolled their eyes at him when he explained, no we don't have drink specials. He didn't miss them muttering about how the place was a dump under the thunderous sound of their heels clacking against the wood floor on their way out.

And of course, Hunk was holding the door open for them. He thanked his lucky stars Hurricane Pidge swept up Hunk before he could trace leaving customers straight to Keith's bar. Pidge dragged Hunk back to the kitchen and winked at Keith along the way.

Oh. It was Mercy in Pidges eyes. That was a new one for Keith and he had no intention of dealing with the way it made him itch under his skin.

"Dude." Lance leaned against the bar. Keith scanned the restaurant floor, only a few couples in booths in the lifeless limbo that was the too-late-for-lunch-too-early-for-dinner hour. "That was rough."

"I _know._ " Keith grit out. There was still a few quiet patrons at the end of his bar, so he did everything to keep his voice down. "I'm not happy about it either."

Keith wasn't sure what made him angrier. The fact he didn't get the luxury of serving families, whose Mommies and Daddies tipped well to make for a good example or the fact it didn't matter who he served because Lance was just better at this than him.

He already wanted another smoke.

"Lance, cover bar for 10." Keith ripped off his half apron, and turned on his heel toward the back of the restaurant. He didn't miss Lance rolling his eyes at him as he breezed on past.

"Not even a please _Lance-the-magnificent?_ Not even a _Please Lance_?" Lance huffed. Keith stopped to give him the blankest stare he could muster, already pulling out the carton from his back pocket. His demeanor melted almost immediately.

"....Not even a please?" Lance said, significantly smaller. Keith looked past him to find Pidge not-so-subtly tapping a _Nintendo Switch_ tablet underneath the host stand.

"Hey Pidge." Keith called out. There was a certain amount of familiarity tangled between the syllables. It made Keith acutely aware of his breathing. Pidge floundered, trying to shove the gaming system under the table floor plan. "Wanna cover bar?"

Pidge’s grin stretched to an unstable level across their face and their eyes twitched with a mania more akin to Dr. Jekyll than Mr. Hyde.

"Oh my god, no no no, see I'm at the bar! Look at Lance, serving drinks- Pidge don't you DARE move!"

* * *

The quiet of the alley was like paradise for Keith. The noise of the restaurant, between patrons, kitchen, and Lance, could elevate the place from rambunctious to down right cacophonous. It's a bar. Bars are loud, you just deal with it. Sometimes the noise raised his blood pressure to the point where it made his head separate from his body. But the clamour muffled behind the industrial metal door? It was ambient. Warm. It made Keith feel comfortable enough to kick his legs off of the wrought iron scaffolding that lead up to his room.

He felt kind of okay. So of course he had to go and ruin it with math. He tried to average out his tips, he still owed a portion to the house...he'd get paid out by Lance and Pidge but he didn't do much but sling them beers and well drinks. It wouldn't be a ton of cash. He scrunched his face up like he bit a lemon, trying to focus on the feeling the gentle summer breeze on his skin.

Then his tights got caught on the metal, and the tearing sound commanded his full attention.

Fucking fantastic. Another thing he couldn't afford. He moved one hand so he could take a long drag of his cigarette while fishing for his phone beside him.

Google: quick money

No, idiot. That isn't going to net you anything. Think a little smarter here.

Google: Easy ways to make money.

Not much better. He waded through all those _'take surveys to make literally 10 cents_ '. Nah. There was always gambling but the issue with that is that it was, well, a gamble. And while Keith didn't have a ton to lose, he wanted to grasp what was left in his bony little hands. Then, he found something plausible. Something that almost seemed too easy. Something he could do around work hours, bring home a ton of cash, and start and stop as he pleased.

It made him want fucking puke over himself.

_An Escort Taught Me How to Sell Myself to Strangers Online_

He could feel his palms getting sweaty. Was he really considering this? Like, yeah, maybe he went on a few dates because he just wanted dinner and drinks but escorting seemed a whole new level of sordid. He didn't think he could go through with it.

But he opened the link anyway.

"Hey there, Rebel!" A voice reverberated beneath him, and Keith nearly dropped his phone. He juggled it with none of the grace and finesse he KNEW he had, and felt mortified as he clutched the LG whatever-the-fuck tight to his chest like it was his own flesh and blood. Keith finally looked down to Shiro chuckling, looking bashful.

"Sorry Keith. Didn't mean to sneak up on you." He smiled like he meant it. Keith hummed around his cigarette.

"No rush, but when you're done can you let me in? Hunk sent me a text I couldn't _totally_ decipher, but I think the deep fryer’s on the fritz. I wanna take a look at it before dinner rush." Shiro leaned against the stairs, craning his neck behind his shoulders to make sure he kept eye contact with Keith. It didn't matter if Shiro asked him to hurry or not. The profile made him crave the smoke like he needed it to breathe.

"You wanna take a look at it, or does Hunk want you to?" Keith teased, hiking his knees up so he could plant his feet on the platform. His skirt didn't allow for him to have his legs spread like this, but he didn't rush to rise to his feet. Shiro kept the candlelight smile warm and small on his features

"Of course I wanna help. I don't want to see you guys struggle over something that can be fixed, " Shiro said. He said it like he was reciting what he had for lunch, rattling off something banal. It kinda threw Keith for a loop. Keith lived life for himself first and foremost. He did what he had to get by, fighting tooth and nail to survive. He couldn't imagine taking time out of his day to help a bunch of schmucks so they could slop chicken tenders to drunk college kids.

"Besides, I wanted to compliment Hunk on his scones." Shiro's candle smile seemed more like a floodlight, Keith couldn't take the spotlight.

"Compliment his baking and fix his appliances? He'll be the happiest housewife in town." Keith put out his cigarette with a smirk, and Shiro's boisterous laughter bounced along the alleyway bricks and ricocheted straight into the pit of Keith's stomach

"Please Keith, not like this. I can't settle down yet." Shiro grinned so wide, Keith could see every one of his perfect teeth.

"You're already going white. You're running out of time to find a good wife." Keith teased as he walked down the stairwell. The moment his feet touched brick, Shiro elbowed him right in the gut. It ignited something in Keith. Something that went from simmering to boiling over faster than he could process.

But he was laughing.

Honest to god laughing.

His own timbre mingled with Shiro’s and the sound gave the alley a whole new life. Their laughter was a sunset streetlight lighting up the passageway with twilight ambience. Before Keith could get his hands on the deadbolt for the door, it whipped open far too fast for its weight.

"Shiro you're here, thank god." Hunk gasped, red faced and winded. "Sal's pan frying everything right now but there's no way we can make it through happy hour without the deep fryer!"

Shiro grinned. "Yup, right on my way. I'm sure it's nothing serious."

Shiro clapped a hand on Keith's back, smiling just for him for but a second, before leading them inside. The hand was heavy on his back, Keith tuned into the pressure of each of Shiro’s fingertips through the jersey knit of his dress. There was an uncanny coolness to the touch, stark against the sticky summer air.

The imprint of it set Keith’s skin on fire.

* * *

Keith's knee-jerk instinct was to run to his room after work. It was a pattern for him. His brief memories at home, what he could make out of them, mostly involved navy sheets and kind-of-white-kind-of-yellow walls. Any time he had a roommate he'd go out of his way to find a space for himself, as much as a dorm room would allow. Maybe he was kind of a loner. It's fine, that's just how he _was._

But Hunk said he was making Osso Bucco.

Osso Bucco with lemon risotto.

Maybe Keith was a loner, but he still had a beating heart. Not to mention a growling stomach.

But even with the richness of meat and broth curling into his nose and making his limbs feel comfortably heavy like he had already eaten the lion's share - he almost felt like shivering. It was food he so dearly needed. It was just Hunk. But the mismatched silverware at his place setting gave him a rash. He couldn't look at it, he couldn't look at anything for too long without needing to scratch an itch he couldn't find anywhere on his body.

"Oh man, we really lucked out today." Hunk slid a plate in front of Keith, It looked like out of a vintage cookbook, with a perfectly shaped disc of risotto swimming in a pool of broth around it. Keith did his best not to drool on himself. It was a far cry from mozzarella sticks nuked to an edible state in a vat of peanut oil. Keith wondered if it killed Hunk, reheating food from a freezer on the daily. "Not only did Shiro fix the deep fryer, but I swear it makes the fries taste better. We got so many compliments."

Hunk plopped himself down across from Keith, grinning ear to ear.

Keith didn't know what to say to that. He opted to fill his maw with a huge bite of steak. It was so tender it all but melted in his mouth.

"This is really good," Keith said. There was a firmness in his voice he knew wasn't right for dinner conversation. Hunk didn't seem to care.

"Thanks! It's my moms' recipe, well it was. I've been tweaking it over the years. You see, most people use veal, but a nice fatty chuck shank gets the job done just fine. Oh, and butter instead of oil." Hunk nodded intently, as if he was having an internal debate with himself. "Yeah, definitely butter."

Keith kept eating, more than happy with the ambiance of cutlery scraping against their melamine plates. Yet, he opened his damn mouth.

"Why don't you serve stuff like this at the pub?"

For the first time, Hunk faltered. Keith watched as his face fall. There was a twinge of pain, being the one to take the wind out of Hunk's sails. Or at least remind him that there hadn't been a breeze in days.

"Well, it'd be expensive," he started, stirring the broth into the risotto. He kept his eyes glued to his plate like he was counting the grains. "The ingredients would be expensive, and we'd have to sell at a price point our clientele would.....struggle with. It's also time-consuming to make, so we'd probably need a line cook. Our place isn't really black tie anyway, you know?" Hunk finally lifted his eyes to meet Keith’s. He looked like he was asking for forgiveness.

Fuck.

"It'd be nice, if you could cook more." Keith blurted out. "Not like, for me. The restaurant." He winced at how awkward he sounded. Hunk's whole body relaxed like he finally exhaled after holding his breath. There was something delicate to Hunk’s smile.

"Yeah. It'd be nice." He looked through Keith as he said it, and at that moment Keith really wished he was in his room. The panic must've been clean in his eyes, because Hunk took pity on him. "Here, you can relax, I'll take care of dishes."

It felt inherently wrong, to have Hunk cook and clean so Keith could mope in his room.

"I'll make it up to you." Keith said it like an oath. Keith knew his tone was intense, he saw it in the way Hunk lurched back. "I mean it."

* * *

Keith twisted his legs in the lone threadbare indigo sheet. He usually tried to keep it flat, as it was the only thing between him and the silky-scratchy texture of his barren mattress. He couldn't keep still. He stared at the immobile ceiling fan. He envied the fan, in the moment. It stayed as still as the thick air in the room, there was no force to push it in motion. Keith wished he could lay hanging and static, even just for a moment.

He let one hand dangle, stretching out to run his fingers over the uneven texture of his floorboard. The darkness in the room covered him like a blanket, and his cell phone was blinding even on it's dimmest setting. He tapped deftly to open the Spotify app, letting the tinny chords of his favorite playlist fill the room as he fumbled to find the switch for his shadeless floor lamp.

The light drenched his room in a sickly yellow. He caught his reflection in the mirror propped up on the dresser. He looked fucking jaundiced, and his bruises were alien in their stages of healing. He flattened his palms across the dresser, inhaling so hard his nostrils flared. There was nothing here but his reflection, his convictions, and Morrisey's spiteful lullaby.

 

[ _They make me awkward and plain_ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h4F_eaa1XIY)

[ _How dearly I would love to kick with the fray_ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h4F_eaa1XIY)

[ _But I once had a dream, and it never came true_ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h4F_eaa1XIY)

[ _And time is against me now_ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h4F_eaa1XIY)

 

Keith swallowed as he gripped his phone, staring at the last open page. He read the article like instructions on open heart surgery. He didn't even let the information sink into the layers of his brain. If he let the facts cool, it just gave him more time to be indecisive. He immediately regurgitated it into swift movements in his fingers as he built user accounts on at least 5 different sites. The choking sensation didn't loosen its grip on Keith's throat even as the actions grew repetitive and tired. Only after god knows how long of spitting the same phony information into near identical profiles could he finally breathe.

Keith collapsed back first into his mattress, starting another staring contest with his ceiling fan.

_You really doin’ this, huh?_ it mocked.

"I don't see you coming up with any better ideas," Keith murmured, rolling over to bury his face into his pillow. He barely got a moment of peace behind his eyelids before the light of his phone burned right through them. He reached for it as if it was something fragile. Or dangerous.

With a tentative tap of his pointer finger, he let the phone bloom with light to see a message. A lump formed in his throat. He read it over and over again like it was in a language he barely knew. On read-through ten, he started to believe it was real. On read-through twenty, the reality started to set in. He was doing this. Not thinking about it. Not a drunken spark of idea from the bottom of a beer bottle. It was happening.

Keith sat up, spine rigid as he frantically tapped out a reply. Keith Kogane didn't bitch out on things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Chat with me on Tumblr!](http://voxane.tumblr.com/) | [Enjoy some mood music with my Spotify Playlist!](https://open.spotify.com/user/1211290969/playlist/10SUfFZLhdSbhu40neeXLl)
> 
> Special thanks to thoughtsappear, Softieghost, CatAvalon, Theinsanefox and Ashley for holding my hand through this and being A+ Betas. You have no idea how much I appreciate you guys spending so much time on me my heart fucking ACHES.


	3. Blue Sea

Keith's first gig was a plus one at a fucking wake. The woman messaged him to put on formal wear (Keith thanked his lucky stars he packed one 'interview' outfit in his mad dash out) and he got his hopes up that he'd be a fancy restaurant or something. Instead, he was trapped in the passenger seat of some middle age broad’s nineteen-eighty-whatever Crown Vic at the very edge of a funeral home parking lot. Keith sat silently, letting his fingers dig into the faux leather seat as the lady (Karen....he thinks. He should probably double check before they go in) explained to him how they 'met'. She had him parrot back fake facts as she applied chalky eyeliner in the vanity mirror. This was harder than Keith thought it'd be. He was hoping for a little more shut up, sit pretty.

Now he had a manic convoluted mental chart full of distant relatives he had to commit to memory in the next five minutes. Keith furrowed his brow as he wracked his brain to list her sisters ex husbands in chronological order (Bill, Dave, Howard, Bill 2) as well as her other sister’s kids from oldest to youngest (significantly harder - Gwenyth, Rory, Willow, Fiona, Freya. Good God). Keith’s heart beat like a kick drum, feeling much more like he was waiting to be called up for a French oral exam in high school rather than a first date.

Turns out it was more shut up, sit pretty after all. Standing pretty to be more exact. As many ‘facts’ as Karen force fed him, Keith had to do very little actual talking. He was ecstatic for the moment he'd get peace from her piercing timbre. She barely stopped talking to breathe, more enraptured of the story of her cute new intern and the drama of a forbidden office romance than anyone else there.

Someone was dead, but ok.

It was enough to be a conversation piece. No one cared who he was, Keith might as well have been a designer purse for Karen to brag about.

Except, unlike a handbag, Keith was fleeting. No more than an imaginary dream boy briefly attached to a human shell.

Once the clock struck midnight, the magic ended.

Guilt stabbed him through the heart. Being an accessory to her self-destructive fantasy drained any energy he had left. It didn’t take long until he tired of hearing the same lines, the same gasps, he completely left his body. A husk of a Keith who couldn't bear the burden of someone else's mid life crisis. He was learning who Karen was. Her insurance job, her failed marriages, her kids' custody.

It creeped in him, then, that escorting might more complex than he anticipated.

In the fugue state of his mind, he didn't realize he was being dragged out of the place until the cool air of summer night settled on his skin. He blinked at Karen. Her lipstick was smudged, somehow, and she looked frustrated.

"Look," she sighed and ran a hand through her hair. "You wanna come over?"

Keith's spine grew rigid and he tried his best not to look as uncomfortable as he felt, pinned under her gaze.

"I can't in good conscience do that." Keith's tone was stiff. He was trying to remember the exact verbiage of the post he read hastily in his underlit bedroom. "In my profession...it's manipulative. I'm sorry." Keith was sure he forgot a lot of keywords, but he hoped he didn't come off brusque. Or at the very least, cruel.

She sighed and rolled her eyes, like she'd heard this all before.

Keith was not her first.

She turned the keys in the ignition and her headlights drenched the parking lot. The clicking of the turn signal echoed in his mind as she silently pulled off into the night. Keith rolled his head back as far as he could against the headrest and closed his eyes. He only knew the passage of time through street lights that pried through the curtain of his eyelids. He had no idea how much time passed when he felt the vehicle jerk to a stop, and Karen shifting into park.

"You’re having me drop you off at a Walmart?" she scoffed as she fished for her pocketbook from the back seat.

"Yup," Keith stated, keeping firm eye contact with the flickering A of this sign. "Only 24-hour store nearby."

She didn't respond, keeping her bright red lips in a tight line as she pulled out some crisp bills from her Kate Spade wallet. Keith took them with a small nod and shoved them into his dress pants’ pocket.

“I’ll message you if I need you again.” She said like he helped her plant new roses bushes in her garden, or changed the brakes on her car. Something without the weight of a secret on it. Keith’s mind lingered on the word need. The charade of partner was something vital to her living. Like food or water. Keith felt like there wasn't enough air in the car.

He nodded at her and kept his face straight at the mechanical whir of the locking mechanism. Keith let himself out, footsteps echoing in the empty parking lot. Cars were few and far between, hiding in the shadows between lamplight. There wasn't a soul in the parking lot aside from him, the silence made his ears ring. Maybe he was honed in on the artificial noise his mind made, but he didn’t jump at the screech of Karen's Crown Victoria peeling away, cracking through the night air like a whip.

It was uncanny, a Walmart hollow of the harsh, discordant noises of scuffling families or couples. Keith pulled the bills out of his pocket, counting again just to make sure, holy shit this was real. He rattled off a short list of things he absolutely needed (new toothbrush, bed sheets, a pair of leggings for work so no one would talk about his thighs anymore) some things he wanted (organizing cubes, maybe a tacky little necklace).

He stopped dead in his tracks, as he passed the cookware aisle, already trying to recall conversations where Hunk said he needed something, or if anything broke this week. Keith couldn't recall. Hunk deserved nicer things than Mainstays regardless. But he did remember the pot holder having a massive burn hole in it. Keith found one in a dusty lavender color. Far too light to match the garish walls in the kitchen, but he thought it might compliment it. Enough to get a matching set of dish towels. And of course, he'd have to the oven mitt too.

The liminal almost dreamlike space of a near-empty superstore bubbled up something in his heart that made him feel weightless. He felt he was floating on the muzak serenade, riding the tide to the registers.

The cashier didn't make eye contact with Keith but the deep indigo bags under his eyes were plain as a day, painting a picture of several days sleeplessness. Keith tended the bills and took the change, communicating mostly through nods and anything monosyllabic. There was a level of comfort in the feeling of the plastic bag sweaty against his palm. He didn’t know how long he'd been doing it, but he saw something fascinating in the security camera footage.

He was smiling.

* * *

So the funny thing about money, and having it, is that the mere ability to eat whenever you want or being able to buy a cute top, or whatever, markedly improved one's mood. Keith wasn't a social wonder by any means, and no amount of clothing could change that. But, his scowls per minute dropped significantly and he even chatted with a few patrons who didn’t seem too obnoxious. Not only did it make the minutes tick by faster, it was a boon for his tips. Keith found a bounce in his step as he brought over an unsettling perfect cube of tiramisu to a bar patron with a cup of Irish coffee, and the man handed him a twenty on the spot. His lips curled into a smile that he was already getting used to. He slipped the bill in his apron and sauntered back to the 'servers station' (a tiny corner where no one would catch Lance and Pidge snacking on fries they smuggled from the kitchen).

Keith leaned against the wall, grin still painted on his face. He was in such a palatable mood, he didn’t even care about whatever dumb thing they were arguing about (it really didn’t matter if a hot dog was a sandwich or not). Keith didn’t even realize the heaviness of his eyelids until yawn caught him off guard, stifling it with the back of his hand. Okay, maybe there was one slight flaw to this plan. Sure, Keith had new sheets now, but he barely spent any time in them. He head repulsive slurping from the patron at the bar, but even just the idea that it could be Keith made it sound like heavens choir.

"Hey Lance, cover bar for me?" He asked, his voice cracked on the drowsiness.

"No problemo," Lance said around the fist full of fries he shoved into his mouth. Gross. “Also, been meaning to ask. Where’d you get those jeans?”

Keith felt his blood frost over, leaving him frozen in place. He ground his teeth so hard his jaw ached, but he couldn’t pry his mouth upon.

There was an easy answer, and that was the clearance rack of the Forever 21 down at the mall. Same went for the bold print button-down - except Keith paid full price for that.

Things he couldn’t afford on tips alone.

“Thrifted.” Keith blurted. He tried not to cringe, hearing panic squeezed through the syllables. Lance took a hand to his chin, eyes tracing him toe to tip. Keith stayed stock still, even though he felt god damn show cat studied under Lance’s appraising gaze.

“Damn.” He hissed with a snap of his fingers. “I need something to do to my butt whatever those are doing to yours. Because I mean damn-”

“Lance.” Keith pinched the bridge of his nose. The bell chime rang through the restaurant, and keith could feel the tension leave his body at every note. A group of college aged girls, portfolios slung over his shoulders, settled at the very end of the bar. Keith saw a lance shaped puff of dust in his wake as he went to grab their drinks. He was also into Artsy type.

“You’re lucky he’s stupid,” Pidge said, lazily twirling a fry in ketchup while giving Keith an unimpressed look.

“What do you mean?” Keith leaned against the wall, squished next to Pidge out of sight of rest of the bar. He didn’t feel quite on trial with Pidge like he did with lance. It was almost intimate, like his mother caught him sneaking in past curfew. Well, if he had a mom do that sort of thing.

He looked down at Pidge, who kept nibbling on their fry at an agonizingly slow pace. He wondered if they got a chance to eat at home, with Lance constantly double fisting whatever food is in front of him.

“The leather on the label of the jeans is still stiff. Anything thrifted would show obvious wear, and shape to your hip more.” Pidge finally finished their fry, wiping their sticky ketchup stained fingers on a stray dishcloth. “So why’d you lie though?”

Keith didn’t breathe. He probably didn’t even need to lie, but it seemed like his only option at the time. He dragged his eyes off Pidge to stare at the wall across from them, filled by a slightly yellowed whiteboard, with years of red and blue scribbles faded onto it. Pidge drew a quirky doodle of a rotund cat getting abducted by aliens next to the 86’d list. It was charming, in a bizarre way. Very Pidge. Keith, like the cat cartoon, felt floating in imminent danger under Pidge’s radar eyes. He kept reading the 3 things on the 86’d list as if there was some secret message to decode that’d get him out this.

_Strawberry cheesecake_

_Paladin double IPA_

_Dark roast coffee_

“We’re out of dark roast,” Keith mumbled, half to himself, half to Pidge. “I should go pick up more. I want an espresso anyway.” Keith knew he was talking too fast, he knew it was such an easy fucking tell. The panic was in his twitchy fingers, struggling to unknot his apron. Jesus, he was a mess.

“You don’t have to tell me. I’m not gonna blow up your spot or anything.” Pidge stretched briefly looking up to their cat doodle. “We all have our own shit.” They quickly looked out to the over the restaurant floor, scanning to see if anyone could have heard them. “....Our own stuff.” Pidge didn’t even look guilty.

“But I’ll figure it out, Keith. So you better not be doing anything dangerous so I won’t have to kick your ass.” Pidge’s face was in a tight pout, and it made them look like a riled up kitten. Which would be funny, maybe even cute, if Keith didn’t feel an awful lot like a catnip toy dangling on a string.

“I’m fine,” Keith said it like he meant it, pulling out his cigarettes and balling up his apron to shove into the cramped counter place next to the ketchup stained plate. He shook one out and slid the box into his back pocket. He didn’t miss Pidge’s grimace, and he could hear the unsaid words on the tip of their tongue.

_Filthy habit._

“If you say so, Keith. Hurry up, I can only tell Lance it’s been five minutes for so long before he catches on.” Pidge smiled, and it wasn’t toothy, manic, or smarmy. It was something small and demure and very unlike Pidge. It gave him goosebumps, and he rushed to get into the hot summer sun to thaw.

* * *

The walk to Altea was only about half a cigarette long, so Keith kept the cigarette he pulled balanced on his ear. He could take the scenic route home, or make himself comfortable against the cobblestone walls of the parking lot with a smattering of other servers and baristas who needed the same nicotine calm.

The building itself fit strangely into the main street, like a puzzle piece with the edges sanded down. The sun-worn brick that painted this town was only seen in accents of the coffee shop, for fashion rather than utility. Most of the rustic charm was drowned out in full glass paneling in the front, with bright white beams for a minimalistic look. Peering inside, the place was lined in black leather rounded edges and bright bold painting of the shop’s logo in stark black and white. It was a precisely measured amalgamation of modern and rustic. High contrast monochromes blending with wood paneling and raw brick accents to make it something entirely unique

He walked in, with no bell to alarm his presence, but the sweet scent of espresso thick in the air. The place was packed. Study groups crowded around tables in a flotsam of papers and textbooks underneath precariously stacked saucers and mugs of frothy beverages. Groups of friends squished together onto couches, leaning over each other to vie for the stack of cinnamon buns in front of them. Keith felt lost in the hustle and bustle. All the patrons seemed like they’ve lived in this coffee shop for years, and there was no room for him.

Keith, unsure of really what to do (in hindsight, he probably should’ve asked exactly how they got their beans, or who he had to speak with.) approached the counter. The man at the cashier was deftly switching out the grinds to brew a fresh drip with a kind of finesse that made something so menial seem so impressive.

“I’ll be with you in just a minute!” He called out, and Keith felt his jaw hit the counter.

“Shiro?”

Shiro turned around, fingers still pressing buttons even as he gave his attention to Keith. He had rectangular glasses that Keith had never seen him wear before, but now he couldn’t imagine him without them. Shiro’s smile was so warm, Keith half expected it to light his cigarette.

“Hey, Rebel!” Shiro wiped his hands on a pure white rag as he approached Keith at the counter. “Fancy meeting you here!”

“Hunk never told me you worked here.” Keith felt stupid saying it out loud. It’s not like Keith was prying information out of Hunk over dinner, not that he hadn’t thought about it.

Shiro laughed, and it made Keith feel even dumber.

“I do a lot of odd jobs, it can get confusing where I really _work_. He leaned onto the counter, hand cupping his face and sleeves rolled up to the elbow - he really looked like he was made to work at a coffee shop. “What can I get you?”

Oh. Right. Keith had forgotten that he had actually had a mission statement here.

“Americano. To go.” Keith watched in fascination at the act of Shiro scrawling on a cup. He really needed that fucking coffee if his mind was so easily occupied by one kinda-handsome dude doing mundane tasks. “Oh, and the restaurant needs dark roast.”

Shiro nodded at him before passing a cup over to a redhead Keith didn’t even notice behind the espresso machine.

He must be really tired.

“I’ll go get Allura for your beans, Coran’ll get your drink right up.” Shiro walked away from the counter before stopping directly under a cast iron ceiling light. The light was painted him with artificial sunset, and the orange tones gave his skin a lively hue. Keith thought he looked good in the dim greenish hue of faux-tiffany lamps littered throughout the bar. He turned to Keith, the light shining off Shiro’s arm right into Keith’s eyes. It was so bright he had to squint.

Wait, what?

“You wanna smoke, after this?” The words crawled out of Shiro's mouth, tentative and without footing. He stood, glowing in the lamplight with his brown knotted in apprehension. Keith itched his ear holding the cigarette like a lottery ticket that had the words he needed beneath the silver foil.

“Yeah,” Keith said as if he had a revelation. Shiro smiled and his eyes crinkled at the corners.

“Cool. Meet me out back in a few?”

He disappeared through a door before Keith could question if Shiro smoked. Keith stared at the spot where Shiro had stood like his figure was still standing in the orange glow. It wasn’t until the song changed over the speakers that Keith realized he was still hovering in front of the register. The cymbal crash brought him back to reality, and the drum beats helped him move his feet away from the counter. Keith wandered, steps airy like the flowery synths, letting the song fill the empty space in his mind left from Shiro.

[ _Fire on the beachhead_ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LBpbpxjSzZo)

[ _Reflecting deep blue sea_ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LBpbpxjSzZo)

[ _And we sail from the mainland_ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LBpbpxjSzZo)

[ _And we sail to be free_ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LBpbpxjSzZo)

His eyes flicked to every corner of the place, feeling antsy without something to focus on. He was was captivated by a corkboard, plastered in a jumble of fighting pop art colors. The closer he got, the more form that came with the shape all the colors. The board was filled to the brim with business cards, mini posters, and even hand-scrawled notes about anything anyone could want. There was one, in chunky black sharpie that just read _HELP!_ Keith couldn’t help but snort.

Relatable.

There was one poster, dead center, wrinkled from the heavy saturation of black ink that must’ve nearly overheated someone's printer. The typeface, in stark contrast, was bright white that was hard to look away from.

_Black Lion_

_Playing every other Thursday at The Hungry Tiger!_

Nothing special, really. Every town has local bands that play weeknights until they scrape together enough people willing to pay a cover to see them play. What was special, or at least intriguing, was a little sparkly blue star-shaped sticky note on the bottom left-hand corner of the flyer, with some delicate script writing perfectly centered in on it.

_Featuring Altea’s own Shiro!_

Huh. Keith was sure learning a lot about Shiro today. Well, Almost learning.

“Americano for.......Rebellé?” The mustached barista stared at the cup like a Rubik's cube and held it out like it smelled foul. Keith flushed every shade of red as he snatched up the drink and bolted to the back door.

* * *

The vastness of the parking lot made it feel hotter, like his skin was made of the same cracked asphalt. Keith sidled against the brick wall, in the sliver of shade that the building offered. Settled in his personal little slice of shade, he plucked the cigarette from his ear and tried to light it as he watched the back door of the coffee shop. Something about waiting for Shiro made it harder to breathe, and he knew the nicotine wouldn't help. He frantically slid his thumb over the lighter, his heart rate racing faster at every _hiss click, hiss click,_ before his shaky hands could produce the flame.

He closed his eyes, inhaling as much as his lungs could hold as he rolled his head against the cool stone wall and watched the smoke clouds dance toward the sky. He saw Shiro out of the corner of his eye, burlap sack tossed over his shoulder, smile still painted on his face. Keith rolled a pebble underneath the sole of his boot, back and forth in time with Shiro’s footsteps. Daylight, high in the sky, reflected little sunburst rainbows off his left arm. Keith’s mind was overstuffed with questions. So, of course, the most banal one finds its way to his tongue.

“I didn’t know you smoked.” Keith’s voice was scratchy, and he tried to drown it out with his espresso.

“I don’t. Well, not very much. Only if I need it. Old habits die hard.” Keith nodded as Shiro joined him against the wall, offloading the bag of beans with a small ‘oof’ on the ground between them. Keith fully understood the need the body has for nicotine. When Keith first started smoking, he’d only indulge when his chaotic thoughts ricocheted through his brain like ping pong balls, and he couldn’t do anything to stop them. The breaking point simply got closer and closer throughout the years. “I was ready for a break. We keep running into each other, but I can’t seem to make you stay.”

Keith hid his flush behind his coffee cup. “I’m not running from you.”

Shiro laughed. He always seemed to laugh too loud, but it didn’t bother Keith. “I’m teasing. I just wanna chance to get to know you.”

“There’s not a ton you can learn in 10 minutes.” Keith quipped, trading the coffee for another drag of his cigarette. Keith wasn't like Shiro. He didn’t have flyers baring his soul plastered on any walls, and he didn’t have history branded anywhere on his limbs.

Keith was private. A few guys told him he pushed people away. He recalled a drizzling night in the city, those words echoing in empty streets and a door slammed in his face. He thought then, it was something he really had to work on. For the night he just found someone else to take him home and forgot about it. Keith realized there was a silence between them, but it doesn’t seem like it needed to be filled with anything that the muffled symphony of each others breathing.

“You never told me you were a rock star.” Keith exhaled the words like smoke, tilting his head to Shiro so he could see every drop of satisfaction in his grin.

There was the faintest hint of a blush across his cheeks. There was no sheepishness anywhere in his expression though. His smile stretched ear to ear, and something glistened in Shiro’s eyes like diamonds in the rough.

“You’re a tease,” Shiro said, the grin staying in place. “We actually just started doing shows this year. For a long while, all we did was piss off my neighbors. But we started getting good, eventually.” Shiro stretched his arms over his head, reaching them outward toward the sun before folding them behind his neck. “You should come see me sometime.” Shiro’s eyes twitched for a fraction of a second. “See us sometime.” He corrected himself.

Keith hummed around his coffee cup. He wasn’t quite sure how to respond to that. Keith’s immediate response was ‘can’t, working’. But Shiro knew exactly where he worked and could easily call his bluff. Keith didn’t really want to lie about his side job again today anyway. He was running out of Americano to busy his mouth as he thought, well, he would like to see Shiro play. Worst case scenario, even if they sucked, he’d get to see some music and have a beer or two. That sounded like a pretty okay way to spend a night.

He also wondered how Shiro would own a stage. He was curious about the rock star. He dragged the empty cup away from his lips.

“Yeah. I’d like that,” Keith said, the hint of a smile on his face. Shiro bit his bottom lip like he was trying to stifle a smile.

“That’s awesome,” he said, laughter bubbling in his tone. “I try and invite Pidge and Hunk, but they’re always busy on Thursday. Especially being short Lance.”

“Pause,” Keith said, holding out a hand and taking a vital drag of his cigarette. “Are you implying Lance is in your band?” Keith heard his tone drop an octave, and his sneer was tight on his face. Shiro laughed again, and Keith melted against the wall behind him.

“Aw don’t be like that. Lance isn’t so bad. He’s gotten........real adequate on bass.” Shiro grinned down at puddle-Keith, who had his hands knotted in his hair and cigarette balanced on his bottom lip. He raked his hands from his scalp to the back of his neck, rubbing it so his hair wouldn’t tickle it. Next trip out he needed some hair ties.

“I should head back to work.” Keith groaned, snuffing his cigarette between the cracks in the pavement. He hoisted the bag of beans up with him as he rose to a stand.

“I should head back too before Allura drags me back.” Shiro pushed himself off the wall, dusting his hands on his apron. “She will, no joke. I’ve seen her biceps, I’m not risking it.”

Keith hugged the bag of beans with both arms. The burlap was itchy against his skin.

“See ya later, Keith.”

“Yeah.” Keith watched Shiro the entire time as he walked back to the door. He turned around before he stepped inside, and Keith pulled the bag even tighter in fear he’d drop it. Shiro waved, and Keith turned on his heel before Shiro could see any heat on his face. All his senses were overwhelmed by the heavy aroma of coffee. He closed his eyes, as he crossed the parking lot, and he only thought of he how Shiro always had this same faint smell lingering on him. Keith clutched the bag to his face, inhaling the smell even though the burlap scratched at his face.


	4. Roxanne

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> VOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOXANE
> 
> YOU DONT HAVE TO TURN ON THE RED LIGHT
> 
> I keep thinking they gon smooch soon and this thing KEEPS GETTING LONGER.............................................

Keith kicked his heels off at the bottom of the wrought iron steps. He didn’t bother to pick them up, deciding that a late night cigarette in the privacy of the back alley was more pertinent than anything else going on his life. Once the cherry glowed orange, his own little night light in his private space, he scooped up his abandoned heels in his left hand and padded up the on the balls of his stocking clad feet. Even with the cigarette between his lips, he made sure not to breathe until he slid his legs through the railing at the very top of the stairs, lest he wake Hunk at this hour.

At the very least the dates where he got home late were usually more enjoyable. Tonight he spent time with an older gentleman with distinguished salt and pepper hair. Christopher. He took him out for an expensive dinner with an almost as expensive bottle of wine. He asked Keith about his life, but he felt like he was more with a father than date. Keith couldn’t remember the feeling of either of those things, though. Perhaps he didn’t know any better.

It was real nice though. Christopher bought him a dress to wear and let him keep it. They went to some exclusive country club, and he taught Keith some basic ballroom steps. With his hand around his waist twirling in a room dim enough to mask his age, he whispered to Keith that he shouldn’t give up on art. He told Keith he’d like to see his paintings someday. Keith couldn’t keep the sadness off his face. He had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from flinching as Christopher ran the back of his hand over Keith’s cheek.

 _Shh._ He had said. _Have fun. Pretend with me._

Keith smiled, even though it felt like he strained every muscle in his face. He wanted nothing more than to run out of the dancehall as fast as his heels would carry him and smoke every cigarette in his purse.

But it was his job to pretend, no matter how it made his skin crawl.

The clock struck midnight, and Christopher's Lincoln Town Car might as well have been a pumpkin, he kissed Keith’s hand as he dropped him off in the far corner of the parking lot behind the restaurant.

The soothing burn of nicotine seemed to ebb too quick. The smoke only clouded his mind for moments before he remembered the crinkles in Christopher’s melancholy smile, and the sensation of his cool skin against his burning cheek.

Keith tried to flick away the thoughts with his cigarette butt as he rose, and fished out his keys from his purse. He twisted the knob of his door excruciatingly slow, as if his intentions were enough to keep it from squeaking.

It didn’t matter, as the moment he opened the door, he was flooded with light and the thumping of Hunk’s footsteps. Keith plopped his purse and shoes next to his bedroom door, keeping his steps light into the kitchen. No matter how hushed he knew he’d scare at least a year off of Hunk’s life.

“Hi, Hunk.” Keith said once he saw that Hunk was empty handed and no kitchen utensils or baked goods could be harmed. It was the right call, as Hunk jumped almost a foot into the air, clutching his chest and hyperventilating once the adrenaline died down.

“God. Keith. I knew you’d be coming home and you still scared me half to death.” Hunk chuckled, wobbly with nerves as he pulled off his oven mitts and pulled open his cabinets. “Want some sleepy time tea? I’m headed to bed as soon as I can pull these croissants out.”

“Yeah, I’d love some.” Keith bookended his words with a yawn. The cabernet sloshed around in his stomach, already rocking him to sleep. But an alcohol sleep was a restless one, and Hunk’s Sleepy Time Tea always did the trick. Maybe something to sop up the liquor first.

“Do we have any toast?”

Hunk nodded, fishing out brioche loaf from the cabinet, and slicing off a piece as big as could fit in their toaster. He pulled out a pot to start boiling water and took a moment to sit across from Keith.

“You look really pretty tonight,” Hunk said, sleepiness thick and gravely in his voice. “What's the occasion?”

Keith cursed himself. He should’ve run into the bathroom, tried to wipe off some of this makeup, ditched the chiffon gown for his worn out sleep pants.

“Thanks,” Keith started, dragging the syllables out like he was feeding himself his own lifeline. “Um. I went to an opening for a G-Arts alumni.” Keith knew he sounded absolutely exhausted. Luckily he could blame it on lack of sleep and not the emotional labor of digging his own god damn grave.

“Ah, yikes, I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to bring up a sore subject.” There was a guilty flush on Hunk’s face before the chime of the toaster beckoned him away from the table. Keith kept his head down, screwing his eyes shut as tight as he could.

Way to go, asshole.

The pity party abruptly ended as the melamine plate was plopped in front of him, along with a ceramic mug. Keith forced himself to look Hunk in the eye, and say thank you like he really fucking meant it.

“You do look real nice though. You should start dressing like that for work. I bet you’d get more tips.” Hunk teased him, keeping his wistful eyes on his bobbing tea bag. Keith snorted around

his crusty bite of toast. “Or maybe we could headline you, like one of those fancy city bars.” Hunk snickered, dropping his tea bag and making a dramatic sweep of his arm. “Saturday night only, come get served by star bartender _Kinky Keith._ ”

Keith choked on his toast, sputtering up crumbs as he laughed.

“Why do I have to be kinky?” He whined.

“Look, Keith, we really gotta sell the act if we want our Saturday nights to stand out. _Luscious Lance_ isn’t pulling in people like he used to.” Hunk teased, returning dutifully to his teabag. Hunk took a long sip, and let out a sigh that relaxed his entire frame. Keith craved that same release and swirled his own tea bag around until it bleeding color dyed his cup a warm mahogany.

“Do you ever do shows on weekends?” Keith asked, cradling his mug with both hands to relish in the warmth. Hunk cocked his head, looking perplexed at the idea.

“No. I never thought of it honestly. I guess I get wrapped up in making sure everything is functional. That’s not a bad idea though, most places around here do that sorta thing so we gotta compete.” Hunk furrowed his brow, hand on his chin. Keith took a long draught of tea like he didn’t already have it in mind.

“Maybe....if you work the floor. Lance’s band could do a gig?” Keith spoke as if putting the idea out in the open was dangerous in some way. “He could do afternoon bar, I’ll take evening. Pidge could do dinner service with you as backup?”

Hunk stayed silent, mouth agape. He mouthed out some counting on his fingers, before turning to Keith so fast he swore he felt a breeze.

“I think that could work. Oh man, I really think it could work. I’ll ask Lance tomorrow! Man Keith, you’re a genius. I’m so glad you found me.” Hunk nearly jumped out of his chair, ready to pull Keith into a hug when the over went off with a shrill beep.

Keith sighed. He wasn’t sure what, but something about Hunk’s words made his heart beat like a hummingbird, and lungs short of breath. Keith took the navy plate with the awful maroon mug and ditched them in the sink, not caring about the clatter. The room was filled with the sweet scent of butter and chocolate, overwhelming so late at night. Keith couldn’t take it.

“I’m headed to bed. Night, Hunk.” He wouldn’t look at him when he said it, staring into the darkness of the unlit hallway.

“Sweet dreams, Keith, I’ll see you in the morning.”

Keith hoped he didn’t dream. He had a stomach full of wine that was too expensive to think of vomiting, and the lingering aroma of croissant prying it’s way to him past the door of his room. Even in the comfort of the dark, hidden under his sheets, he couldn’t escape all the sensations following him.

_Have fun. Pretend with me._

Keith didn’t cry. He understood the notion but didn’t find the energy worthwhile. But at the words echoing in the back of his mind, he felt a burning behind his eyes that he was glad was snuffed out by trance-like effects of sleepytime tea.

* * *

It was 6:58 when Keith scrambled through the back door of the restaurant, running near face first into the time clock. Even with the way the computer always lagged with every touchscreen keystroke, he managed to clock in at 7 pm on the nose and was, undeniably, not late. He was at a ‘boozey brunch’ with some fresh on the market divorcee that, that quickly became happy hour bar hopping. Keith barely had time to change into something ‘work appropriate’. The lingering scent of Burberry Brit, even with a change of clothes was pungent in the back of his nose. He scraped the cash so he could buy the roller on sale at Macy’s, have something nice to wear out. Right now it made his stomach sick.

To add insult to injury, Lance tapped his foot behind the bar, hands on his hips like a disgruntled mother.

“About _time_ jeez.” Lance sighed, untying his apron. “Some of us have to get warmed up, you know.” He balled up the apron and pushed it into Keith's hands as he walked by.

Keith regretted even bringing up the notion to Hunk.

The stage that was set up was meager at best. Hunk had hustled as soon as dinner service was deemed ‘over’, dragging out tables as fast as he could. Pidge ‘helped’ by tailing behind him, more interested in tapping on their phone. (“Look, I’ll help for real after, I need to do my dailies.”) In their place was a metal and resin riser, dressed with navy tablecloths, dusty and forgotten in the back of some closet. Pidge told Keith that Lance stayed up all night remembering how to use his mom’s old Singer so he could gather them. Keith could only tell himself he regretted so much while watching everyone work so to make it happen.

“You came!” A voice rang from the doorway. Keith gave himself whiplash, heat blooming Pavlovian to the sound of his voice.

Shiro had on a leather jacket and torn up jeans and Keith was not sure how to process that. It was a far cry from a button-down with the sleeves rolled up, and that alone left his mouth dry.

He had to admit, Shiro looked good.

Real good.

Shiro plopped down the speaker he was carrying to beeline to Keith’s bar. Keith couldn’t help the wry smile that unfurled on his face. Shiro might be dressed like a rock star, but in the moment he seemed more like an overgrown Labrador retriever.

“Shiro, I work here,” Keith said, bemusement creasing the corner of his eyes. “The only other bartender is tuning his bass for _your_ band.”

Shiro only grinned wider. “Yeah, but,” He leaned over, leather-clad elbow on the bar, chin in his hand. Shiro’s eyes were grey, and it’s the first Keith’s ever noticed it. Shiro parted his smiling lips, and it felt an awful lot like he was about to tell Keith a secret. Keith couldn’t even swallow the lump in his throat, pinned under Shiro’s half-lidded eyes.

“Shiro, what the fuck, you can’t just leave _my_ very expensive amp in a doorway you dummy.”

Keith jumped at the voice, bumping into a bottle of Grey Goose that he fumbled to catch inches from the floor. He could feel his whole face burn crimson, and he considered folding into himself and staying under the bar.

“Shiro, what are you doing? I thought after the _Lance Incident_ we had a no drinking until equipment is set up rule?”

“No, Matt, I was saying hi to my friend. He bartends here.” Shiro laughed, voice warm and melty on the word friend. Keith clutched the bottle of vodka. He felt like he needed a fucking shot before standing back up. He had to find the nerve regardless, unless he wanted Shiro’s bandmate to think there was a god damn invisible bartender in this place. Keith got up, cradling the bottle of vodka like it was a three-digit bottle of wine and he was a sommelier in an upscale restaurant.

Probably not the best first impression.

“Hey.” Keith offered, ignoring the sweat on his brow.

Matt looked him over, and Keith could see the rollercoaster of understanding in his eyes, strapped in and helpless as they rolled into the back of his head. Matt sighed and clapped a hand on Shiro’s shoulder.

“We’ve got a lot of shit to move. Keith the Cocktail Boy will be here when we’re done.” Matt threw Keith a smug smile, whistling a bouncy tune as he walked toward the speaker in the doorway.

Keith refused to jump at his name.

But how did he know his name?

He looked up to Shiro, whose blush might as well have been a written confession on his face. He mouthed an apology and ran after to him help lug everything they needed to convince the masses that the risers were a stage.

This was really happening. Hemmed tablecloths and cut and paste flyers didn’t seem like much at the time, but as people started filing into the bar, it really was the cherry on top that this was a _concert_. They trickled in at first, waving a greeting to Lance, or Shiro. But the crowds became thicker and Keith had trouble spotting even Hunk in the crowd. These weren’t his regulars, people who never would step foot in this bar otherwise. From neon-haired art kids painted with tattoos, to girls with big dangling lucite earring and shorts cut so short the pockets stuck out. Keith didn’t care for them. He found solace in seeing familiar faces on his bar stools. There was a comfort in seeing the same people at the same time with the same drink already prepared. Now there was a sea of strangers, a writhing mass of aimless energy, and Keith's heart beat a little faster.

One of the girls, all eyelashes and minxy smile asked Keith for Amaretto Sour, with breath that reeked of menthol.

“Sweet for me.” She giggled, batting her eyelashes.

Keith’s blood drained from his face. He had felt the same stab of plastic lashes just this Monday. He knew her. He went on a date with her in some nightclub. But the memory was mostly saccharine cocktails and spinning LEDs.

What was her goddamn name?

Amaretto Sour... was it Lucy, who liked those? No, no. Lucy was the one who liked gin and tonics and playing with his hair, they went on a boat ride with her sailing club. Derrick liked Amaretto Sours. Clearly she wasn’t a Derrick. He was kinda handsome, though. But he called Keith _babydoll_ constantly and eyed his heels in a way that made his skin crawl.

He didn’t even realize he had handed the drink off to the girl until he felt the scratch of press ons against the back of his hand. False-lashes scampered away, into the crowd, and didn’t give Keith another glance. He stayed, frozen in place, eyes just watching the shifting form of the crowd like a lava lamp until he heard someone screaming for a beer at the other end of the bar. Keith shook his head. He had drinks to make, he couldn’t space out like this.

He shook his head, and focused solely on the tap. He tossed out beers and poured cocktails faster than he could hear the call for the next. He did everything to just focus on the drinks. He honed in on anything he could touch. The next bottle to grab, the kind of glass he needed, shaken or on the rocks. It didn’t matter if he broke everything down to the most basic form - Derricks and Christophers and Karens kept sneaking between his thoughts.

With the single strum of an electric guitar, Keith started and realized his bar was empty. Everyone, drink in hand, brought their voices down to murmurs as the lights dimmed so the darkness covered the bar. Shiro, Lance, and Matt looked distant in the floating dust, like the only ones alive in a ghost town. Keith stared at them, trying to put figure to their form, but he couldn’t shake the corpses from his mind. He scanned the room, hoping her highlights and bright red could stand out in the dark. Keith didn’t even know what do if he found her. He wouldn’t talk to her, but if she went out of site, the restaurant would crumble brick by brick and trap his body in the rubble.

Shiro’s hands drifted from his guitar to grab the mic with an all teeth smile and pulled it toward him. Keith was sure the cord was tied into a noose around his neck. He can’t tell if it’s Matt or Lance who called out into the crowd, the words were static in Keith’s ears. The cheers sounded like crashing ocean waves, and Keith was caught in the undertow. Drowning, mouth open with no air for his lungs.

“You okay, Keith?” Hunk placed his hand on his shoulder more gentle than a butterfly on a flower petal. Keith reeled back, a startled gasp that caught both of them by surprise. Hunk’s eyes looked glossy, in the low light of the bar, yellow and muddy. Keith could see every shadow in Hunk’s frown lines. “Hey, you’re breathing real heavy. Grab some water and take a 15. Let me know if you need anything.” Hunk reached out a hand again but flinched before he got too close.

Fuck.

Keith nodded, spraying some water from his gun into a random pint glass he fished out before holding himself in the server station. He didn’t even realize his hands were shaking until some water splashed onto his skin.

 _Get a fuckin grip Kogane_.

The water went down thick in his throat. He gasped when it went down, the air in his lungs rushed to his head and he had to grip his fingers around the ledge.

The rhythmic tapping of a cymbal tiptoed into the center of his brain, and soon Keith found

himself breathing out of time with the beat of the drums. He blinked a few times, eyes now focusing in on the pile of wrapped silverware, and all the off-sized glasses they stowed away over here. He ran his finger over the wood grain, running over the drop of finish that was never smoothed down.

“How’s everyone doin out here tonight?” Keith perked up at Shiro’s voice, crystal above the din of the crowd. “We’re Black Lion, and we wanna thank you for comin’ out to see us.”

Keith’s heart went from throbbing in his ears, to something more like a flutter. He desperately, wanted to have Shiro talk to him. Keith couldn’t deal with this, but maybe Rebel could. He peered around the corner, ready to stomach the crowd if he could see Shiro’s eyes. His smile.

“I don’t really like to do the speech thing - you came here for music and it speaks for itself. I hope you like it.”

Shiro glowed on stage, like a dive bar angel thriving in the glittery specks of dust that only the stage lights could pick up. Keith was hooked, from the first tiny breath barely picked up by the mic. Shiro’s eyes slid shut, and the corners of his mouth twitched upwards. He looked at home up there. Comfortable and intimate, private. Earth bound and made home in this bar right off the main street.

Keith’s heart jumped again, pounding like he’d seen something he wasn’t supposed to.

And he couldn’t look away.

 

[ _Roxanne_ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3T1c7GkzRQQ)

[ _You don't have to put on the red light_ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3T1c7GkzRQQ)

[ _Those days are over_ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3T1c7GkzRQQ)

[ _You don't have to sell your body to the night_ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3T1c7GkzRQQ)

 

Keith kept his arms folded across his chest over his beating heart, face stiff so he wouldn’t give anything away. Everything around him, in comparison to Shiro, seemed so far away and quiet. He could hear Matt’s drums, and Lance’s bassline. He knew the swarm of bodies was still alive in front of him. But with Shiro, white parts of his hair glowing under the lights and smiling soft made the space feel smaller and more empty.

Despite all logic, he felt like Shiro and he were in the bar alone.

Shiro was a showman. Keith knew that, he made alleyways and empty parking lots seem like something made for him. He turned that resin riser with homemade curtains into a god damn stage. He turned Main Street Pub into a dance club, everyone in the crowd moving against each over drinks above their heads, hollering at every note belted from the pit of his stomach made of nothing but raw emotion. His voice was gravelly, Keith could hear the habit dying hard in his notes - the reverberations made his hair stand on end.

Keith’s kept his arms locked, but he was restless. He couldn’t keep his pointer finger from tapping against his bicep. Chaotic energy was boiling over in his gut. His body felt like a tightly coiled spring, every nerve vibrating to leap into the crowd and jump and sway with the mass of bodies.

Keith didn’t like dancing.

He couldn’t understand why he felt so much like a wolf with his paw caught in a trap. There was silence for a moment before the bar was drowned in whistles and screams. Everyone cheering, for the band, the music or the moment. Keith’s head felt floating, high, and if he held back the scream he desperately needed out of his body he felt like he’d explode.

He took a step from the wall, squared his feet and cupped his hands around his mouth, and whooped as loud as he could as if his lone voice could drown out the crowd. He saw Shiro’s eyes flick to him, for just a moment, before he raked a hand through his hair and said a humble _thank you_ to the mic.

Shiro winked at him, and Keith turned around in record time, mechanically making his way back to the bar. He had more time on his break, but Hunk, for all he did, deserved at least this.

Everyone seemed distracted by the band, gearing up for the next song, with only a few stragglers grabbing shots or beers in the eye of the musical storm. Hunk smiled, more than happy to dole them out.

Keith bit his lip knowing he had to apologize, or something. At least explain himself. The notion alone made him more nauseous than he was when he couldn’t breathe.

Keith inhaled nonetheless and pressed on.

He walked behind Hunk, who was watching the band with lofty eyes before turning to Keith with a smile bright even in the murky light of the bar. It was easier to be brave, with a guiding light.

Keith wrapped an arm around Hunk’s shoulder, and he felt him jump with surprise.

“They’re good,” Keith said, trying his best to recreate the warmth in Hunk’s smile. He was sure his carbon copy wouldn’t be quite the same, but he hoped the sentiment came across.

“Yeah, they are. I feel kinda bad for never seeing them before. And I almost feel bad for the _Lance Bass_ jokes _._ Almost.”

A girl bounced to the bar, yelling for a lemon drop and Keith patted Hunk on the back, letting him know he was free to leave the bar.

The night was easier, with music. Every voice in Keith's head was completely deafened by wailing guitars and Shiro’s booming voice. Keith found himself humming along, even singing softly to himself. Their last song seemed to end too soon, and it was the only time since they started playing that Keith's smile fell. Last call was just as chaotic as the pre-show rush, but Keith found it much easier to get through with ears ringing and running off adrenaline. He felt his energy spike every time he caught Shiro in the corner of his eye.

There was still a sigh of relief, from everyone, at the click of the door latching shut.

“Wow. You guys killed it. We haven't seen a night this good in.....god, I don’t think we’ve seen a night this good. This is amazing. Thank you, all of you.” Hunk rubbed his misty eyes, before breaking out into a grin that stretched his cheeks to cherubic roundness. “So who wants champagne!”

Before anyone could even cheer, Lance was behind the bar, uncorking the bottle in the _most_ incorrect way, squealing with glee as the cork whizzed past Keith’s head.

“We did it! We really fucking did it oh my god. That was our best gig yet. We got through our whole set list and no one threw bottles or or tried to fight and I even tuned my bass right!” Lance slammed the bottle down, too hard, and fished out six champagne glasses between his fingers. “There were so many people. I bet tons of bars will want us for weekends now!”

Lance poured the drinks, getting as much champagne on the counters as he did in the glasses. Keith rolled his eyes, but still had a smile on his face for him. He deserved the moment. He looked up to Shiro who had a casual arm around Matt, leaned in rumbling low whispers. Matt looked up and made eye contact with Keith, and smiled a knowing smile that made Keith incredibly nervous. He hoped to god it didn’t show on his face as Shiro came to grab his glass of Champagne. He was still sweaty from the stage light, the salty smell of _man_ mixed with his woodsy cologne overwhelming as he came closer.

“I heard you cheering.” Shiro said, smiling, like a sure thing. “I didn’t know you had it in you, Rebel.” He clinked his glass against Keith's, steady between thumb and forefinger, before downing the glass in one swig.

Keith felt the blood in his cheeks, and sipped at his own glass. The bubbles popped on his tongue like the little fireworks in his gut that made him want to jump and scream for Shiro in the first place.

“I guess I was impressed,” Keith said, talking to the champagne, voice small enough to wedge itself into the flute.

“I’m glad if we impressed anyone, it was you.”

Keith tore his eyes from the glass, up to Shiro’s. He had that same smile he did on stage. It left Keith breathless all over again. He couldn’t find the words for Shiro - he didn’t know what was happening. Lidded eyes and boy smiles that completely unfurled and left him naked and defenseless - but not threatened. It left Keith compromised.

“You wanna go get some drinks?” Shiro asked, voice low. Keith looked around.

For all intents and purposes, they’re alone.

Matt had his arm around Lance, rattling off some music jargon that was barely english to him, and Hunk and Pidge were dragging tables and chairs to being the restaurant back to its former self for tomorrow’s lunch service. Shiro has him cornered, lights low again and everything drenched in the warm tones of the Mahogany wood that surrounded them. Despite this, Keith kept his voice to a whisper.

“We’re literally in a bar.”

Shiro smiled, like he knows something that Keith doesn’t. Usually that sort of thing made Keith angry. But Shiro’s face is nothing but authentic, there was a spark in his eye that shined like a precious stone that Keith had never seen before.

“I think you’ll like this better.”

Keith swallowed and kept his eyes locked onto Shiro’s like a challenge.

Keith Kogane did _not_ bitch out on things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Extra special shout out to the Stupid Idiots and the Club for Crappy Jerks for the extra help this chapter. I'm p sure I made Cait, Tori and Ash read this chapter like 3 fucking times lmao.
> 
> Y'all are some real ones. And I thank you so much for it.


	5. Under the Milky Way

Keith had been in a lot of strangers cars, and each and every one felt like it was ill built for him. He wasn’t sure why he thought Shiro’s Ford F-150 Nite would be any different. He kept his eyes fixated on the tape deck, even though he couldn’t make out the settings in the sparse flashes of brightness the streetlights offered. He tried to tune in to the crackle of sound from the radio, barely recognizable as music underneath all the static. Keith was pretty sure he knew the song, but the familiarity didn’t make him feel any more comfortable. He dug his hands into the upholstery, daring to look at Shiro out the corner of his eyes. Shiro had one hand on the wheel, the other stretched across the expanse of his backrest. His window was rolled down, and night air whipped his white tuft of hair in every which way.

“Do you want a cigarette?” Shiro turned to Keith, and he jumped with a sheepish flush. Shiro’s smile only grew warmer. “I have a pack in the glove. I don’t mind if you smoke in here.”

“Thanks.” Keith hated how his voice sounded so fragile. He shook his head and blindly reaches for the glove. The streetlights are becoming fewer and farther between. It made fishing for the cardboard carton all the more cumbersome. Keith couldn’t wait for the nicotine to take the edge off the anxiety bubbling in his gut, and left his hands shaking.

Shiro smoked Southern Cuts. Keith wrinkled his nose, hidden under the blanket of the night. He didn’t take Shiro for someone who liked sweets. He wasn’t sure why he thought that. He knew Shiro worked hard, had a smile that melted ice and eyes that left him with more questions than answers. Maybe he didn’t know a lot about Shiro.

He didn’t think about it too hard as he fished the lighter out of the glove.

He cupped his hand around the cigarette, waiting for the cherry to glow to life before rolling down his window and letting cool wind flood into the car. His eyes drifted outside, trying to make sense of the shadowy shapes of what Keith could only surmise as trees. Every so often the faraway walkway lights would illuminate paths to the few and scattered houses.

Keith exhaled, leaning his head back into the too stiff headrest. He rolled his neck to look at Shiro, his fingers dangerously close to the tip of his nose. Keith liked Shiro’s cologne. It wasn’t too much, just a woodsy hint that made Keith wish he could get just a little more.

“So where are you taking me?” He murmured, dangling the cigarette out the window. Shiro smiled at the windshield, eyes straight forward.

“If I told you, it’d ruin it.”

Keith choked down a scoff. There was no way the information of their destination would somehow change the properties of the place itself. That was nonsensical. Shiro wasn’t dragging him to god damn Narnia. They weren’t even going to cross state lines. There was no magic in this town. Anywhere they’d go would be the same earth dirt and more than likely lined with the same tired sun bleached brick.

Keith hummed around his cigarette as Shiro pulled the truck into reverse. Keith let his eyes drift close, acutely aware of his weight shifting in the bench seat. He tossed the cigarette butt out the window on muscle memory alone. He waited for Shiro to tell him he could look again. Keith didn’t want to ruin it for him.

He heard the click of Shiro’s seatbelt and the rustling of some paper, and he could feel Shiro shifting, all the way over on the driver's side. His eyes twitched, desperate to take a peek at what he was doing. But he kept them pressed shut, even when Shiro patted his shoulders and pressed his fingertips into his skin.

“We’re here,” he whispered. Keith opened his eyes to an ear to ear grin drenched in the yellow glow of his still on headlights.

Shiro waited until Keith hopped out of the truck before flicking them off, but turned up the radio louder. Shiro twisted the knobs until he could find a station that came in almost-kinda clear. There was still more fuzz than lyrics, but Keith didn’t mind it. He was used to static lullabies, and there was an innate comfort in the frequency of the noise alone. It made it easier to take the leap from Shiro’s truck into great unknown.

It was a whole lot of nothing.

A dime a dozen parking lot. Keith could hardly tell the vast flat nothingness was a parking lot at all, barely lit by dim and flickering street lights lining the faraway road. Keith frowned. He didn’t have his hopes up, or at least he didn’t think he did, but he couldn’t keep the disappointment from running through his veins and dying his soul melancholy at the sight of another empty parking lot. Perhaps this was the lonely landscape he was fated too. The thought alone dragged his head down, eyes glued to the chipping paint of the parking line.

“Keith, over here.” Shiro’s voice reverberated in the emptiness of the night, punctuated with sharp tin slaps. Keith sighed, deflating his entire body. There was a part of him that wants to leave. He’d call Hunk if he had a car. He’d seen Lance in his tacky electric blue GTO, but Keith wasn’t quite that desperate. He sighed, ready to turn around and smile like he was getting paid when his jaw dropped slack.

Above him, as far as he could see, the sky glittered with uncountable stars. Keith had never seen them so vividly before. The night was so clear, he could see them blink and strobe against each other, like a sequin dress Keith would drool over in a boutique window. It was hard to pry his eyes away to look back at Shiro. Keith managed, and thought he might like the stars reflected in Shiro’s, twinkling with wonder, a little bit more. He was propped up against the rear window of his truck, curled to one side to leave more than enough room for Keith. Keith took his smile as an invitation.

He heaved himself into the bed of the truck, crawling next to Shiro who held out a dewy Narragansett tall boy. Keith watched the bottle sweat for a moment in empathy. He felt a lot like the poor beer, not made for the sharp change from its chilly confines to the sticky summer heat. He accepted it, holding it close to him with just his fingertips before popping the tab and letting the hiss dissipate into the air.

Keith ached to ask where they were, but kept his mouth shut and his eyes glued to the sea of stars fading in and out, each one a facet of a diamond catching each other's light. Reading the stars, Keith understands. Or he thinks he does. Maybe Shiro brought him to the moment, and their coordinates were irrelevant. They were away. That’s all that mattered.

The stars danced to the muffled guitar strums, tinny from Shiro’s speakers, and beer fizzed on his dormant tongue. He rolled his head to Shiro, completely blissed out and drunk off of the night sky.

“What does it make you think of?” Keith murmured. He set his can down, and the sound of metal on metal was deafening over the car radio’s hum. “The stars, I mean.”

Shiro hummed, a bemused lilt curling the tail end of the sound. He took a long draught of his beer, setting his can next to Keith’s with the same loud clang.

“You want the cute answer or the real one?” Shiro wouldn’t look Keith in the eye when he spoke, rather focusing on transient specks in the sky. Keith picked up his beer and took an angry swig.

“I don’t do cute,” he said. Shiro laughed.

“That’s your opinion,” he said with a flash of teeth, like one of the blinking stars. “I think you do cute plenty.”

“Fuck off.” Keith tried to pepper his words with fight, but no venom was left on his tongue. “I’m being serious.”

“Alright, alright.” Shiro rubbed his finger along the side of the beer can, his fingers covered and its sweat and camouflaging his hand to the aluminum. “It makes me feel...small.” Shiro’s voice was all sandpaper, and Keith remembered what he said about his smoking habit dying hard.

“All those stars are so much bigger than us, bigger than we could fathom. They blip in and out, you have no idea if you’re even looking at the same one or your eye caught something new. They’re so fleeting. We’re fleeting. Makes me wonder if I’ve done enough. If I’m doing enough.”

Keith curled in on himself, huddling around his beer. The sound of an Ebow, elastic and artificial, pierced through the night air and filled the space left by Keith's silence. There was something uncanny about how it sounded so much like bagpipes, but not. Something so vintage and natural, with an electronic edge. Even through the blown out filter of the radio, he can hear the distinctly man-man reverberation. Shiro smiled throughout, and it was the first time Keith felt like it was disingenuous.

[ _And it's something quite peculiar_ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pWxJEIz7sSA)

[ _Something shimmering and white_ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pWxJEIz7sSA)

[ _Leads you here despite your destination_ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pWxJEIz7sSA)

[ _Under the Milky Way tonight_ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pWxJEIz7sSA)

“Isn’t it kind of comforting, though?” Keith stretched out his legs, the chunky sole of his boot making a dull sound on the flat of his truck. “We’re all small. The reason stars are so pretty is because we can see them all. Up close, it’s just an ugly ball of gas. I dunno. It’s kinda nice to know there’s a million of us wandering around. Nothing any of us does individually matters. It’s nice not having the pressure.”

Keith wasn’t sure what he was saying the moment he opened his mouth. He felt dizzy off too much beer and too little food, the melancholy acoustic in the night air giving him courage to say things he was too scared to let sit and mold in his brain.

“I feel kinda stupid saying it out loud,” Keith admitted, frowning into his beer can.

“Far from it.” Shiro clapped a cold and heavy hand on Keith’s shoulder. Keith shuddered, chills rolling down his spine. He wanted to rest his own hand over Shiro’s. He wanted to know if it was smooth and cold. He wanted to find out first hand what Shiro was made of, but he couldn’t work up his nerves to make himself do it. “No one has the universe on their shoulders. Maybe stars alone don’t change the world as we know it.”

Keith sniffed loudly, flaring his nostrils to try a breathe as much of Shiro’s garden of words as he could. All he got was cold pine and stale beer. He didn’t get it. He squeezed the beer can enough that his fingerprints caused dents. He wanted to uproot Shiro and see him, dirt and worms and all.

“You’re a star, Shiro. Everyone’s world is different. I know you changed someone's tonight.” Keith thought, in that moment, that it’d be appropriate to slide his hand over Shiro’s on his shoulder. Intertwine their fingers and hold his hand long enough to find equilibrium in their body heat. He thought about it so much, a clamoring voice in his head that drowned out anything else he could even try and focus on.

So it surprised him quite a bit when Shiro snaked his fingers between his and pried his fingers off of his beer.

“You’re sweet, Keith.”

Shiro laughed when Keith audibly groaned.

“I don’t see what part of chain-smoking-binge-drinking-crossdressing-attitude-problem is sweet,” Keith sneered. He wanted a cigarette but instead tried to drown the white-hot want in lukewarm beer.

“Who said you had an attitude problem?” The tail end of laughter left a small breeze in Shiro’s voice.

“It’s been tossed around. The Advising Board for G-Arts thought so.”

“You’re an artist?” Shiro lit up, twisting his whole body to face Keith. His arm shined blue in the night light. “You never told me. What did you do?”

Keith hugged his legs to his chest and rested his chin on his knees. He didn’t even care how he was positive he looked like a kicked dog. Sure, Keith kinda hated how people danced around talking about G-Arts to him like he had a nasty skin condition. But he liked it more than staring at the ugly, scabbing wound himself.

“I paint. Painted.” Keith murmured, half his mind thinking of his abandoned dorm room and half painted canvases that were more likely than not under a pile of garbage. Keith couldn’t figure out whether or not that made him sad.

“You stopped?” Shiro blinked, goldfish like. Keith unfurled himself to shrug at him.

“I got expelled,” Keith said. He heard his tone get sharper, and visibly winced.

“That doesn’t mean you have to stop. I want to see your paintings.” Shiro leaned all his weight onto his arm, leaning toward Keith so they were just a breath away. “I bet you’re amazing.”

Keith, despite himself, smiled. Small and coy, perhaps a little cocksure.

“Yeah. I was pretty good.”

“You’re still a good artist, Keith. You didn’t leave your skill at college,” Shiro corrected. He grunted to standing position, stretching his arms above his head. “I hate to call it a night so soon, but I’m opening at Altea tomorrow.”

Keith nodded, upturning his can to get the last few sips of too warm beer that didn’t even taste good. He hopped to the ground, little clumps of dirt crunching beneath his feet.

Keith didn’t wait for Shiro, sliding into the passenger seat of Shiro’s car. He turned down the too loud radio and slid his empty can into the cup holder. Keith stretched his arms, knuckles brushing against the headliner and let them melt over the expanse of the backrest, and Shiro smiled at him as he turned the keys into the ignition.

“So this one time,” Keith wasn’t sure if it was the liquor or the kinetic energy, alive and zinging back and forth through Shiro’s truck like a caffeinated game of ping pong, that made him antsy to talk. “My painting professor tried to fail me because we were supposed to do self-portraits. But I didn’t paint my face.” Keith found his grin becoming comfortable on his face. “I made such a big deal of it. I had to talk to the department head and everything.”

“Yeah?” Shiro flicked his eyes to Keith for just as he pulled out of the parking lot, and into the winding black confusion back to street lights storefronts bright with LEDs.  “Is that the stunt that got you expelled?"

Keith snorted.

"You kidding me? You think being uppity gets you expelled from art school? I didn’t even care that much. The professor was such a piece of work I made it my hill to die on to see him sweat.” Keith smirked ear to ear. He let out a sigh, and felt his tone fall to something more unsure.

“I got expelled for....picking a fight with the wrong guy.” Keith’s fingers tapped against the worn down Chenille faster than any beat humming from the radio. “He was in my painting course. Didn’t like my rebel without a cause schtick.” His lips curled into a slight smile, hearing Shiro’s voice echo the nickname somewhere in a back corner of his mind. He looked out the window at the shadowy landscape, still dark blue and murky with only the moon and Shiro’s headlights.

“Fought your professor, fought your classmate, fought the man, fought the law,” Shiro tilted his head to Keith, and his smile glowed in the first burst of streetlight they drove through on their way back.

“Well, the law won.” Keith rolled his eyes as he said it, even if it made Shiro chuckle. Keith moved his anxious fingers to the glove compartment and let them rest on the warm plastic before turning to Shiro. He nodded the moment Keith made eye contact, and Keith helped himself to another Southern Cut. He rolled down the window, and watched the smoke get sucked away to linger aimlessly, entwined with the exhaust from Shiro’s truck. Keith took a long inhale, watching the cigarette ash too fast. He tapped it on the window sill.

“I actually fought the kid, though.” The words came out like a hurricane wind in the eye of their conversation. “Like, drew blood.” Keith sighed out smoke, revelling in the privacy of the ashy veil for the millisecond it surrounded him. “He was a legacy - at a fuckin’ art school - and mommy and daddy play tennis bi-monthly with the dean.”

“Well that seemed like a poor choice,” Shiro said, with the faintest hint of _dad_ in his voice. It would’ve made Keith’s blood boil if it wasn’t so funny. Oldies cover band, beat-up pickup, he even had the white hair. The _have-you-learned-your-lesson_ tone was the only thing missing.

“It was a calculated risk, _dad._ ” Keith smirked around the cigarette, eyes darting to Shiro to see if he’d smile. “The thing about art kids is they’re not so great at math.”

"Am I really a dad? God, Matt said I was a dad.” Shiro frowned, eyes on the road. Keith had never seen him look so earnestly distraught. He brought his left arm up play with the white tufts of his hair. Keith’s smile stretched across his face. _Cute_ may have crossed his mind. He almost choked at the epiphany. He sucked in more nicotine as if he could hot box his internal monologue from echoing in his mind. In the silence with thoughts so loud he could feel them in his gut, he only now noticed now silence that had been going on for longer than he ever realized. When Shiro spoke, no matter how soft, it was too loud.

“Why did you do it, though?”

Keith bit the inside of his lip, his fingers warm from the smoked down cigarette tip. He took a deep breath and forced a faux confident smile on his face.

“Will you take me out for ice cream if I tell you?” Keith teased. He tried to make sure his drag off the cigarette wasn’t as frantic as he felt.

“Come on.” Shiro’s words bubbled with laughter, but it blew away too fast like Keith’s cigarette smoke out the car window. “I’m being serious.”

Keith hummed, and flicked the butt of the cigarette out of the window.

“He- we-,” Keith ran his tongue over his teeth, as if the taste of burnt ash and stale beer could sort his thoughts out for him. “We had an arrangement. I made drinks at his parties, but I got to drink his alcohol. Give and take.”

Shiro nodded expectantly, looking to Keith’s eyes, bathed in the glow of the red light. “We fucked. A lot. Dumb drunk stuff that got habitual. I,” Keith inhaled, like he didn’t already say the hard part. But he supposed he didn’t. Sex was always the easy part for him. Keith, with enough time and liquor could yield his body to others. His heart however...

“I told him about myself. Too much. He used it against me and I couldn't control myself.” That was another story entirely. Keith’s not sure where to trace his shame to. All he knew was that it was thick in the air, like his cigarette smoke, but provided him no comfortable numbness. He looked to Shiro for _something_. Anything to get him through this. The truck stalled, at a stop sign, and Shiro let it sit idle for a moment. They were right under a streetlight, and Keith could see the caverns of his frown. “I’m sorry he hurt you, Keith.”

“Stop it,” Keith murmured, and he hated how he could hear his voice crack.

“He manipulated you.” Shiro bit his lip, as if pandora's box was lodged in his throat. “Guys who do things like that- use what they know will hurt the most against you...” he trailed off, mangled thoughts fizzing in the air as he twisted his frown into a vile grimace. He looked bashful when he caught Keith staring. “Sorry. I’m displacing my emotions.” Shiro turned the engine over.

Keith’s words burned to ash. He pressed his tongue against the roof of his mouth, and he felt like it’d go up in flames if he so much as moved it. Shiro’s eyes reflected the city lights like the moon in a still water lake. “It’s part of growing up, or whatever,” Keith said, unable to force a smile for Shiro.

“I had to choose between my passion and my boyfriend. It was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done, but I’m glad I kept making music.” Shiro wouldn’t look at Keith as he said it, but Keith felt every angle of his face even in the dimness of the night. Keith thought maybe he got it now. What would tonight have been like - without Shiro’s music? Without the rumble from Shiro’s gut vibrating through his bones? Without life preserver notes held out long enough for Keith to catch and hold close, to keep him afloat? Shiro was alive on stage the same way Keith lived on canvas, and his heart ached for all the half painted pieces he left behind.

“I wish I had a painting to show you.” Keith didn’t realize he’d said it out loud.

“You’ll have to make one.”

Keith jolted, looking up to see Shiro wide eyed. He was all smiles again, and heat rose to Keiths cheeks. The smile was infectious, as much as Keith tried to hide it.

“I dunno. I have to be inspired,” Keith teased, drumming his fingers on the dashboard, tapping out a staccato rhythm.

“I think I can help with that.” There was a honey like texture to Shiro’s words, slow and tantalizing. Keith bit his lip. He couldn’t figure out if he liked the taste. Shiro’s truck rolled to a squeaky stop, and Keith turned to the familiar parking lot drenched in yellow streetlights. It seemed so bright, comparatively, but he couldn’t see his wrought iron stairs hidden in the shadows of the alley.

“Keith.” Shiro’s voice was so small, so incredibly delicate. Keith didn’t breathe, in fear he’d destroy it. “I’d really like to take you out some time, formally.” Shiro’s other hand rested against his neck. His mouth twisted into something uncertain for a flash of a moment. “On a date.”

Keith was drowning again.

He was short of breath, flailing, and choking on Burberry Brit in a Ford built prison. He instinctively leaned as far as he could into the car door, his hand slipping on the window crank. The night air did nothing to help him breath.

“I,” Keith started with a rattling breath. Shiro gingerly pulled his hand back, fingertip by fingertip, before folding it in his own silver hand.

“You don’t have to, I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.” Shiro didn’t even look sad. He kept his eyes square and mouth in a firm line. It made the beer in Keith's stomach feel a pound heavier.

“No!” he cried out, far too loud for their small space. Keith looked up to a concerned brow. “I mean, I’m not uncomfortable. I just, I need-” Keith grabbed the door handle like an emergency escape and tumbled to the pavement. “I’m sorry, I gotta go.”

Keith tried to contort his face into an apologetic frown, for just a second, before turning on his heel and bolting across the parking lot. He lifted his feet as fast as he could, even with blurry, unfocused eyes hindering his movement. The second his hand gripped wrought iron, safe and hidden in the thickness of the dark, he spilled his guts into the alley brick at the bottom of the stairs.

Even with his hands white knuckled around the iron, his knees quaked and his body crumpled next to his pile of puke. Keith didn’t cry. He told himself so many times he didn’t cry. But the strangled noise trapped in the back of his throat felt an awful lot like a sob.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you Tori, Foxy and Cat for looking this over for me. Y'all are some real ones. It warms my heart when you react to my writing. I feel so seen and loved :')


	6. Love My Way

Sunlight pried its way through Keith’s eyelids. He blinked only twice before he decided he didn’t care for it. His head throbbed in a rhythm of a coke addled hummingbird yet every limb felt cast in limestone. He much preferred the slightest comfort the curtain of darkness his eyes provided him.

Keith blindly pawed at the floor next to his mattress, flopping his hand around until he felt the smooth plastic case of his phone. He cracked a tentative eye open just enough to see that it was dead. Keith jolted up so fast his stomach lurched up his throat, the sensation of the dip on an emotional roller coaster. He had no idea what time it was, but he _knew_ he had to open today. Keith tumbled out of bed, crashing to the floor with all the grace of a newborn foal. It was hard to muster up the will to claw his way up his dresser and get a good look at himself in the mirror.

The bags under his eye eyes were heavier than ever in bruising purple tones on his patchy too-pale skin, highlighting every blemish.

He also had a blue sticky note on his forehead, almost unnoticed under his sleep swept bangs. He peeled it off carefully between thumb and forefinger, but winced like he ripped off a band-aid on his pounding skull. He squinted in the low light of room; The script on the note was so dainty, Keith had trouble translating it into English in the groggy fog of his sleep deprived brain.

_Keith- I found you outside. You didn’t look so good, so I got your shift covered. Hope you feel better ): Hunk_

Keith groaned with his sandpaper throat and let his body melt to the floor.

Fucking phenomenal. His boss thought he got so trashed he couldn’t even make it up the goddamn stairs. Keith wasn’t sure if that upset him more than the image of Hunk tossing his body over his shoulder,ragdolled, skirt hiked over his hips.

Which, that sure happened.

He tried to crush the image away between his eyelids as he crawled back over to his mattress. If he had the time to wallow he might as well take it. Hunk left a glass of water and wastebasket next to his bed, Keith groaned at the sight. Where did Hunk get off being so thoughtful? It was fucking stupid. Keith couldn’t decide if it was worse that he wasn’t actually hungover- even if his head throbbed and stomach felt like it was eating itself from the inside out, he knew it wasn’t the beer.

He pulled his sheet over his head despite the sticky heat of his room. But even under the blanket canopy, eyes squeezed so tight he saw spots, he couldn't get Shiro’s pained expression out of his head. It was so vivid he could taste the stale cigarette smoke soaked into the fabric of Shiro’s truck.

Keith kicked the blanket off with a flurry of legs. He felt too stifled and suffocated underneath, but the sun was too bright without it. There was no temperature or frequency that felt right. He just wanted a space where he could see, and breathe and be, without feeling like he was in someone else's skin. He sat hunched on his bed, holding his forearms and digging his nails so hard they stung his flesh and he knew little crescent moon indents would be littered over his skin. There was nothing but sharp burning and a high pitch ringing in his ears. He was only shook out of it from staccato knocks, and the realization he wasn’t breathing.

“Yo Keith. Tell me you’re wearing pants. I mean, I guess it doesn’t matter. It’s nothing I haven’t seen before.”

Fucking Lance.

Keith's bones turned to jelly as he flopped over, belly up and lifeless in his bed. He let his eyes drift shut, even at the creak of the door opening.

“You coulda just said you were dressed. Man you look like shit.” Lance let himself in, but knew better than to turn on the light. Keith swung an arm over his eyes nonetheless, hyper aware of his mattress shifting under Lance sitting down on the other side.

“Will you stop telling me that?” Keith murmured, pressing his face as far as he could into the crook of his elbow.

“I’m just sayin’ it wouldn’t kill you to moisturize,” Lance said in a weightless tone. Keith felt Lance’s eyes on him, and his apprehension in the way his leg jiggled on his mattress, creaking against the floorboards. Keith would’ve turned away from him, if it wouldn't grab more attention. The movement stopped, and if Lance was so much as breathing Keith certainly couldn’t tell under the weight of his arm.

“So Shiro stopped by.” Lance spoke, loud and plain. “He asked where you were.”

Keith tried to force every bone in his body to stay stock still, but he could feel his teeth dig into his bottom lip in a grimace.

“Hunk told him you were sick, and he looked like we shot his dog in front of him. And that’s where Lancey-Lance comes in. What’s up?” Keith hated every second of Lance’s blunt attitude. He tossed his body to the wall and moved his arms from his eyes so he could keep his forearms tight against him, tucked beneath his knees.

“I’m hungover,” Keith muttered, his eyes glued to the cracked dovetail on his dresser.

“Keith, I once saw you win a Tour de Franzia with an undermanned team and wake up early enough to get a full breakfast before our 8am drawing course. I know you’re not hungover.” Lance laughed, just light enough that Keith knew he was smiling. “You had coffee _and_ juice. While _I_ nearly vomed on Kinkade’s landscape final.”

Keith couldn’t help but twitch his lips into a hint of a smile. Lance had worn his shirt inside out that day, thinking it’d be better than wearing the same shirt twice. He ended up puking in a sink and the professor made him stay after class to clean up his mess. Lance vowed he’d never drink on a school night ever again, and Keith saw him at James’ party the following Tuesday.

“So did you and Shiro bone and make it weird, or what?”

Keith jolted up and made frenzied eye contact with Lance, casual as ever like he asked for the time and temp, not Keith's sordid bedroom stories.

“Why would you think that?” Keith knew he was loading the gun that was aimed at his own temple but he felt backed into a corner and his fight or flight was flaring something fierce.

“ _Keith_.” Lance folded his arms across his chest and gave him the most unimpressed look he could muster.

From _Lance._

He chose to use his right to remain silent. Keith kept his arms folded across his chest and his scowl firmly in place, even though Lance’s tired eyes made him want to hide back under his blanket.

“Alright. We’re doin’ it this way, then. One, he’s aggressively your type- and I _know_ your type, Keith. Two, his eyes sparkled the exact millisecond he saw you. Three, he stared at you, like, the whole time at our concert. Four-” Lance showed no sign of stopping, ready to unfurl as many fingers he needed to get his point across. Three was more than enough.

“Stop. I get it.” Keith said, holding up a hand between them and dragging the other down his face. “No, we didn’t fuck.”

Lance rolled his wrist in lazy circles, pinning Keith under expectant eyes. Keith bit the inside of his mouth and let his gaze fall to the floor. Keith crossed his arms, firm against his chest. The more he thought about Lance’s words, they drooped lower, to hold his sides as if it’d help keep his guts in.

“Soooooo, you turned him down?” Lance leaned over, dangling the words in front of Keith like a brightly colored feather cat toy. “No!” Keith yelled, wincing at his own volume. It wasn’t lost on him that he was being extremely defensive for someone who _literally_ ran away from Shiro and hadn’t seen him since.

Nor planned to.

“Oooooooh okay, I get it.” Lance swung his leg over and leaned back into Keith’s pillows, tucking his arms behind his head.  He looked up at Keith with soft eyes, and for a moment he felt the ghost of an autumn breeze against his skin; it sent shivers down his spine that left him rigid.  The chill felt so real, Keith couldn’t stop his hands from shaking. Lance smiled, and the sun pouring through his window made him glow. He smiled, so wide he could see the snaggle tooth in the back his mouth. Keith hadn’t seen it in a long, long time. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about it.” Keith grabbed his blanket in fistfuls and tossed it at Lance’s face as he stood. He wasn’t sure where he was going to go, but he knew he was fucking leaving, even if he was wearing his dress from yesterday, puke stains and all.   
  
“C’mon Keith. Lay down,” Lance pleaded, propped on his elbows. Keith gripped the door knob until the tips of his fingers grew white around the tarnished brass, and he only now noticed the metallic taste of blood in his mouth.   
  
“Please? I can’t make you, but I don’t think you’re gonna find anything that’ll help you at the end of a cigarette.”   
  
“You’re freaking out. That’s fine.” Lance let his eyes slide closed, his long lashes making him look like he was capable of peace. Keith was jealous, just of the thought.   


Keith grunted. The only thing worse than being wrong was Lance being right. Keith raked a hand through his hair, dragged his feet back over to his mattress and perched himself on the very edge. He heard the deflating pats that Lance was making on his pillow and Keith groaned but complied, gently laying down next to him. He even looked Lance in the eye.

“You did this last time. Not last time, but you - you get what I mean. When you woke up in my dorm you spent 20 minutes hyperventilating in my bathroom. And you don’t even _like_ me.” Lance had a smug, lopsided grin. Something about it made it easier for Keith to stomach the conversation. “So, what exactly are you scared of?”

Keith wrinkled his nose at the word. _Scared._ Keith was tough. Keith picked fights, made decisions on a dime, and all without Mommy or Daddy’s help. What could be scarier than leaving home on his own, or giving up his dream?

It was hard to think about what happened in Shiro’s truck, however, and not get a whiff of the foul stench of fear.

“I dunno,” Keith admitted, shoving his face into the pillow. Lance rolled on his side but kept his distance; Keith peaked out an eye just to make sure. “Okay, we can figure that out. When you woke up with me, what was the first thing you felt?” Lance kept his tone conversational, his head propped up on his fist.

“Regret,” Keith deadpanned.

“I come here with nothing but goodness in my heart and this is how I’m treated?” Lance whined, flopping down into the mattress and glaring at the ceiling. Keith hid his smirk in his pillow. “You know, you didn’t seem like you regretted when I did that thing with my tongue-”

“Shut up.” Keith grabbed his pillow to smack Lance square in the face. He struggled to hide his growing grin, however. “I mean it though. Like, I felt like I made a mistake by sleeping with someone.”

“Why?” Lance peeled the pillow off his face without missing a beat and propped it behind his shoulders. “I mean, clearly it turned out fine. Well, mostly fine.”

Keith scooted against the wall, back cold against bare drywall. He let his eyelids drift down, and really tried to think back to that Sunday morning in Lance’s dorm. He remembered sun assaulting his sleep much like today. He remembered his stomach dropping at the tan expanse of Lance’s exposed back, and his feet moved on their own. He remembered blurry vision, labored breathing and hacking up highlighter yellow bile into his toilet.

And knocking.

__   
_ Keith wasn’t sure if he’d ever be okay.  _ __   
__   
_ “Gimme a second. I just need to-” He looked around for any excuse. He turned to the mirror, and tried to smooth out his hair with his fingers so he could dart out and run full speed back to his own room.  _ __   
__   
_ Which, would be a lot easier if he had pants on. Or any clothes at all.  _ __   
__   
_ “I just need to find my clothes and I’ll fuck off,” Keith murmured. He sucked in a deep breath, bracing himself to face Lance sober and newly naked. He opened the door only to have his briefs tossed into his face, and a clean shirt that definitely wasn’t his. _ __   
__   
_ “Nuhuh. Noooo way. After what you did to me you owe me breakfast.” Lance had his arms folded, fully dressed, eyes averted from Keith.  _ __   
__   
_ He shimmied into the clothes before facing Lance again with question mark eyes. _ __   
__   
_ “I’m  _ vulnerable. _ ” He explained it with both arms out, like it was obvious. “My asshole hurts and I want waffles. C’mon big boy, I think my skinny jeans from high school are small enough for your scrawny ass.”  _ __   
_   
_ _ “Excuse the fuck you.” Keith stomped his way back out to Lance’s dorm, but not before catching his backside in the mirror to see if he did have a case to argue. “I’m not  _ that  __ scrawny.” 

“I stopped freaking out when I realized you weren’t kicking me out, I guess?” Keith mused, eyes caught in the cobwebs between the ceiling fan blades.    
  
“You think Shiro’d hit it and quit it? Really?” Lance asked, dragging his eyes back to Keith’s. He didn’t look hurt or shocked, but Keith felt guilt boil in his stomach regardless.    
  
“I don’t.” Keith furrowed his brow into something perplexed as if he had his emotions twisted in his hands like a Rubik's cube. The scrambled colors were starting to give him a headache. “I don’t think he would, but I’m still...” Keith let the worlds dissipate on his tongue, and made a face like what was left unsaid was sour in the back of his throat.    
  
“I think you just have to be brave,” Lance said, sitting back up in bed. “Which like, you’re good at. So you’re Gucci.”    
  
Keith squinted at him, grimacing at the words. Lance stretched his lanky limbs as far he could and sprung from Keith’s mattress to the creaky floorboards.    
  
“You  _ are _ brave. You do everything headstrong and heart first. I’ve seen you fight dudes in high heels, Keith.” Lance threw Keith a bemused smile, like it was obvious, but it wasn’t enough to stop Keith from pouting in his bed. “You’ll be fine. You just need to talk to Shiro.”    
  
Keith cringed and dragged his hands down his face again.    
  
“You believe he’s not gonna hurt you right?”    
  
“Yeah.” Keith nodded, melancholy.

“And here I thought something was actually wrong. You’re lucky to have someone as benevolent as me around.” Lance stopped in his doorway, hands on his hips and too smug. Keith got him square in the face with a pillow

“Fuck off Lance.”

“Love you too, buddy.”

* * *

Scared.   
  
The word rattled around in the back of his brain way more than he wanted to. It was the last thing he wanted to think about, but he found his eyes darting to the restaurant door at every jangle. He also found himself needing to run to restock something every time Shiro stopped by. Keith told himself that taking smoke breaks at the very top of the stairs was for his own comfort, because he enjoyed the view. It definitely wasn’t because he could see if a Ford-150 Nite happen to pull into the parking lot it was easy to snuff out his cigarette on the metal, scurry into the apartment.

That’s what he told himself, at least, as he bound down the stairs into the restaurant and rushed into the stock room without so much as an explanation, all at the sound of muffled  _ Steely Dan  _ on blown out speakers. He slumped down, breathless, between a box of ketchup and orange juice. He’d say he was restocking mixers. He shivered, and tried to smooth down the hair on his arm that stood on end, even though his body still radiated the heat of motion in frigid air.

It was dead upstairs anyway, and Lance was on bar so he could hide out for a few minutes. He found that even though he was sitting stock still, his breathing still came in labored puffs in the chilly air and his heartbeat still worked in double time. Shaky hands pulled his phone from his apron, he wasn’t sure if was the nerves or the chill of the cooler that made it so hard to type. He fussed until his jittery hands finally got a song to fill the stagnant air. The Marimba beats echoes throughout the room, and if he  _ really _ focused he could slow his heart rate to match them in rhythm.

Which is probably why he jumped a goddamn foot in the air when the heavy metal door squeaked open.    
  
“Hi Keith.” Pidge grinned, ear to ear, looking villainous with the bright lights of the hallway adding harsh shadows to their figure.    
  
“Hey.” Keith said evenly, calmly, as he sunk himself back down to comfortable ketchup corner. “You uh, need condiments?” He offered, eyes darting around think of something that sounded less stupid. He patted the box next to him for good measure. PIdge closed the door behind them, letting out a breath in a thick white puff before walking over to Keith, and leaning their arm on the other side of the box. Keith tried to focus on the dull stylized tomatoes littered over the cardboard, rather than how unnerving it was to have Pidge looming over him.    
  
The goosebumps were probably from the cold.   
  
“You were taking so long, I figured you needed help with everything you had to bring up.” The pushed up their glasses up the bridge of their nose, fogged and frosty, and flashed Keith a cat like grin. “Which is?” Pidge prompted, letting the syllable hang in the air for Keith to finish.    
  
“Mixers? For behind the bar.” Keith fired back after a beat, with some sarcastic skepticism. Pidge was still banned from bar there’s no reason why they should question what he needed for it.    
  
“Like what? Your orange juice is 75% full, with a spare up there. Cranberry juice hasn’t been touched today. You only have half a bottle of pineapple juice, but at the rate sell pineapple based cocktails it shouldn’t need to be changed out until at least tomorrow, and your grapefruit juice-.”   
  
“Alright, I get it, you caught me.” Keith groaned, letting his body melt against the spackled plaster wall. “So why are you  _ really _ here.” He fired the question before Pidge would. The air was too still, and the humming of the cooler vibrated too loud behind them. Pidge’s hum hit the same frequency, and it made something in Keiths bones shiver. They took off their glasses, rubbing them on the hem of their shirt to clear them of the fog and looked back at Keith.

“You’re avoiding Shiro.” They opened up their palm flat as if it was a secret they released from their hand and let fly in the expanse of the cooler. “Everyone's noticed. I wanna know why. Lance said you were supposed to talk to him and you’re not doing a great job.” 

  
“I’m not avoid-” Keith was cut off by a roar of a groan, and he looked up to see Pidge rolling their head to a comic degree.   
  
“Oh my god, stop. Even Shiro’s noticed, smart guy,” Pidge whined. Keith opened his mouth to protest, but no words came out. Only the hum of the cooler and muffled music from his cell phone’s speakers. He bunched the fabric of his pants into his fists, and screwed his eyes shut.

  
[ _ Swallow all your tears my love _ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LGD9i718kBU)

[ _ And put on your new face _ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LGD9i718kBU)

[ _ You can never win or lose _ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LGD9i718kBU)

[ _ If you don’t run the rac _ e ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LGD9i718kBU)

  
Keith swallowed. He took a deep breath, chilling his body from the inside out, and peered around the box, looking up at Pidge with wide eyes and a voice that came out with a crack.   
  
“He has?” God, he sounded so fucking pathetic. Before he twisted up his face when he realized - “Wait, how do you know?”    
  
Pidge tilted their head back and looked at Keith just out of the corner of their eye, and bared their teeth in a crocodile smile.   
  
“My brother is his roommate.”    
  
Keith’s brain short-circuited for a second, squinting at Pidge’s features and it crashed into him, sharp and loud as a high hat.   
  
“The fucking drummer.” Keith bemoaned, holding his head in his hands. “You look so goddamn the same.”    
  
Pidge turned to him, the shadows catching their jawline like spitting image of Matt for a moment and Keith briefly wondered if he had a right to tease Lance as much as he did.   
  
“I mean, it’s not like you noticed anyone but Shiro that night anyway.” Pidge took two soft steps, and slid down to the floor to sit next to Keith, planting a hand on his knee. “You guys do a lot of dancing around for two dudes who are clearly into each other.”    
  
“Pidge,  _ please. _ ” Keith shoved his face between his knees. He hated this. He hated this so much. How was he such a rolling thunderstorm of man that he destroyed anything he tried to do. He hated it more that now he had eyewitnesses that could assess the destruction. If he got a heart-to-heart from Hunk after this, Keith was sure he’d scream. Skip town. Try one more time somewhere else. He couldn’t believe he fucked up _ again _ , all he had to do was not catch feelings.    
  
He didn’t need a doctors diagnosis. It was terminal. He was lovesick and dying and he had no medicine to treat the symptoms. All he could do was wait for heartache to rot him from the inside out and take his body, victim to disease. 

“He’s sad, you know,” Pidge said, moving their hand to gently pat Keith's hair “He thinks he hurt you.”   
  
Keith dragged his knees close and tilted his head up, childlike, to Pidge.    
  
“Matt said that he’d talk about you all the time. You were the highlight of his day. Now he just sulks when he gets home and goes to his room. He doesn’t even play his records, which is apparently a big deal.” Pidge spoke softly, and looked at Keith with an amount of tenderness he didn’t even know they were capable of.    
  
It made Keith’s stomach turn, and he wasn’t sure what was worse - the idea of fucking up things with Shiro, or the fact he already had. He sighed, and it deflated his entire form. Everything about the situation moved too fast in his brain, under rapid spinning lights that left traces in his eyes leaving him short of breath and shaky. The storage cooler walls were closing in on him, and the cigarette-strained voice from his phone speakers cracks on a high note, and Keith will snapped like a glow stick, filling his body with a new light. He sucks in a gulp of cold air, and holds it, just long enough to feel every part of his body.

“I’m not ready yet.” The words poured out if his mouth in a waterfall, like he vomited the poison that made his body ache. This new weightless Keith sighed again, this time with relief. “Not just yet.”    
  
Pidge hummed with their face cupped in their hands, nodding awkwardly in the position. They stood up, and dusted off their cargo shorts and grabbed a single bottle of ketchup from the box they had been leaning on for so long.    
  
“Acceptable.” They sniffed, tossing the bottle between their hands absentmindedly. “Just.....please kiss that idiot soon. I’m so tired of hearing about this garbage from Matt and Lance. I never thought I’d miss them ranting about  _ The Bachelor _ but it’s getting ridiculous.” Pidge smirked, making their way to the door. 

“But,” they started, looking back to Keith with their hand on the handle but the door still shut. “It’s okay to do it on your terms.”

And with a mighty creak of the door, Pidge was gone in  casual steps down the hall and up the stairs. They left the door open and the artificial slice of light that snuck in and bathed Keith in it’s glow felt almost warm. It was inviting enough for Keith to stand up, and follow the beam of a trail out of the cooler again. He pushed the door shut with a grunt, and the heavy click was immensely satisfying. He lamented that he burned all of his breaks huddled up next to ketchup.

  
He realized now, with a thawing brain, what he really craved was the embrace of the warm summer air. A hint of a smile tugged at his lips, thinking about  how nice the sun would feel on his skin, over the man made chill and musty air of the cooler. He thought about how refreshing it would be, if he had the lingering bitter taste of espresso instead of stale cigarettes.    
  
Perhaps tomorrow, he’d be brave enough to get what he really wanted


	7. Rebel Rebel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aw yikes it's been a minute. 
> 
> I'm so sorry!!! I was competing for a costume contest so writing was on the back burner, and it took me a LONG time to get back in the stride. I really wasn't happy with how it was coming out so I didn't want to post it until I was happy with it. Sorry for the wait, and thank you for the patience!!!

Keith stormed out of the club, the aluminum door whipping behind him. He flinched as the dry night air crept its way from his painted toes to choker clad throat. The hair on his thighs stood on end, and skin turned to gooseflesh on contact. He sniffed, almost regretting his outfit choice, but more so he mourned the death of the summer weather that was here mere days ago.

Keith pushed on into the brisk night with a sigh, heels clacking against the cracked sidewalk as he tried to find a spot near a heat lamp that wasn’t already sardine-packed. He snaked his way through clusters of girls in their Saturday Best until he found an empty spot against the wall; he leaned against the cold brick, about as far from warmth as possible. He plucked the carton of Lucky Strikes dangling out of his sad excuse of a pocket. He supposed he should be carrying a purse, really complete the image matching the girls crowded around each other.

Cigarettes tasted better in the cool brisk air. The burn of tobacco filled his chest like a poorly lit hearth. It made the shadowy corner that was his temporary home bearable.

The ambient chatter vibrated over the muffled thumping baseline was like a well-worn record to Keith, and the familiarity of it alone gave him an odd kind of peace. This was the eye of the storm, the soft and warm crackle until he had to flip the record to the b side. He cherished the opportunity to slump his shoulders and let his smile fall to a frown that was, to his chagrin, more comfortable on his face. He breathed out, lungs full and burning, and assessed the crowd over the puff of smoke floating up towards the night sky. Even with the heat lamps and scattered street lights, it was hard to really _see_ any faces in the crowd. Everything looked watercolor and bled together in the darkness except for the sea of glowing cherries, like stars in the distance through the cloud of smoke.

It made him more melancholy for the sticky summer air and the feeling of dirty aluminum against his skin.

It made him miss Shiro.

Keith tried to see him - he really did. High off adrenaline, or fear, he had stomped his way over to Altea. But the sun wasn’t hot on his skin and the thick grey clouds threatening rain told him it’d be best to go back, get an umbrella - just stay inside entirely. He stifled his doubt deep into his stomach and kept his feet moving across the sea of concrete until he reached the unfinished wood steps to the coffee shop.

He lingered at the wall where he talked to Shiro on his break. He kicked a small stone, right about where he stood last time. Keith still hadn’t asked about his arm. It was hard to remember the itch under his skin that left his mouth dry and craving nicotine, not when he had a cigarette resting in his fingers. The heat was uncomfortable against his skin and his free hand fished out another cigarette on instinct alone. Perhaps the sensation wasn’t all too unfamiliar after all.

“You’re Shiro’s boy!” she exclaimed, lipstick grin stretching across her face. Keith watched her eyes drop to the hem of his skirt, back up to his eyes. “I'm sorry. Shiro’s...Friend.” Keith must’ve made a face because her smile fell and she offered another soft, “Sorry.”  
  
“It’s...whatever,” Keith mumbled, taking a step away from the woman.   
  
“I’m Allura, Shiro’s boss. I’ve seen you come in before, Shiro talks about you all the time.” She brushed her hands down her apron, flattening it over her thighs. Keith kept his eyes sharp on her manicured nails, light catching the iridescent polish with a shifting rainbow of pastels. Her fingers twitched, and the colors scattered into blades of light. Keith screwed his eyes shut and folded his arms across his chest defensively. There was a uncanny silence before Allura’s lips twitched into a wry smile. “He’s not giving you espresso shots, is he? He knows he’s not supposed to do that. Not after the Pidge incident.”   
  
“No...” Keith wondered just how many ‘Pidge Incidents’ there were at this point. He hugged his arms tighter across his chest. Allura’s smile fell, and her eyes shined with a facet of pity. It made his skin crawl, and he could only deal with it by flaring his nostrils.   
  
“Would you like me to grab him for you? He’s due for a 15, I wouldn’t mind working the counter for a little bit!” Her smile was too perfectly framed, her head tilted just-so, posed like an advertisement, like she was trying to sell Keith kindness. Keith's nails were already digging into his skin, and he was running out of ways to distract himself from how panicked and nauseous he was getting.   
  
“No. No, you don’t have to do that. I’ll-” He instinctively took a stride away from her. “I’ll catch him later. He knows where to find me.”   
  
“And, uh.” Keith dug his teeth into his lower lip. He knew it only left them busted and bloodied, and told himself he’d stop doing it. Maybe tomorrow. “Don’t tell him I was here? It’s not - It’s nothing important. I’ll see him later.”   
  
Keith didn’t stick around to see her reaction. He kept his head down, walking away with hurried steps, footfalls clapping with reverberating _fear._ He let his eyes drag from the tired concrete to the melancholy clouds, patchy with the sun trying to pry through. It reminded him of Allura, and it sent a shiver down his spine as he walked a little bit faster.

_Old Habits Die Hard._

Keith tossed the butt of the cigarette against the brick, not even bothering to snuff it out under his heel. He’d be lying if he wasn’t considering a third. Instead, he took a gulp of chilly night air and let the sharp sting in his nose and throat distract him from the ashy taste on his tongue begging for more.   
  
Shiro would make a face if he grabbed another. At least, Keith thought so. He wouldn’t tell Keith not to - but there’d be disappointment plain as day in the creases of his frown.   
  
Not that Shiro was here - and that was completely a ‘Keith Problem’. A sculpture he meticulously molded, and shattered to pieces with a cat-like swat of his hand. He shrugged his shoulders to rub against the cold brick, trying to sand away at his inner thoughts. He really wished he brought a jacket. There were a couple of girls with men's jackets draped over their shoulders like luxurious furs, a symbol of victory in leatherette skin.   
  
Keith longed for the weight on his own shoulders; he had a feeling that Shiro’s well-worn biker jacket would contour to his form without an ounce of resistance.   
  
God, he had to cut that out.   
  
Keith knew he should head back inside to the hurricane of too-loud rock music. His charming date had refused to deal with the thick smokey air and the night’s chill, opting for another cocktail. Keith was thankful for it, to have his own little oasis where he could let his mind wander to Shiro, safeguarded by walls of club goers.

“Hey, Babydoll.”

It’s like he could hear his thoughts. Or the universe was settling some score. Keith sighed, squeezed his eyes shut for a moment before making his way to the sticker-coated door, where his date stood with rigid posture and angry creases in his eyebrows. “You sure took your sweet time.” He turned his nose up to Keith like they weren’t the same height with Keith in heels. Heels he specifically _asked_ Keith to wear. “I was thinking,” Keith murmured, staying stone-faced as Alexander dragged an arm around his waist and pulled them in hip to hip.

“I’m not paying you to think, sweet cheeks.” He punctuated the sentence with a quick slap to his butt, and Keith had to bite his painted lip to keep from jumping, letting himself be dragged back into the sea of writhing bodies pulsating to the bass beat 

* * *

 

“Let me get you another drink. You’re tense, Princess.” Alexander tapped Keith on the shoulder before shoving his way to the front of the bar. Keith could almost hear his groaning baritone over the thumping music and screaming patrons.

It made his skin crawl.

Dates were like this a lot. Sure, there were people Keith had to pretend to like, but more often than not he had to pretend to even tolerate them. Alexander, however, was picking at a scab and the perpetuous scratches reminded Keith more of nights that ended up in fights rather than dinner plans.

 _Chill, Kogane. You need this paycheck_.

Keith closed his eyes, letting the cacophony of electric guitars and wailing lyrics become his world. In the music, he was away from Alexander. From everyone. He was alone, heart racing in time with every drum beat.   
  
Here, he could travel back in time. Against the wall of Hunk’s bar, watching Shiro shine on stage. That same calm was able to ease on the brake lever from his mile-a-minute train of thought, the same security of the floating glittering stage specks- so long as he could see Shiro through them.   
  
He was ripped from his daydream world, shattered by icy glass against his forearm. Keith gasped, making frantic eyes up to whoever - oh, it was Alexander.   
  
Right.   
  
Keith took the drink without a word, bringing the tiny straw to his lips to grimace at how sweet the drink was. Keith held the glass out, eyeing it like there was something rotten floating around in the ice. Alexander clicked his tongue.   
  
It was a Sex on the Beach. Keith didn’t think it was particularly cute.   
  
“I don’t like peach schnapps,” Keith said. He didn’t want to explain himself to a date, but Alexander's eyes laid heavy on his shoulders.   
  
And he was getting paid, after all.

“What _do_ you like?” Alex rolled his eyes, puffing up his chest as he took a predatory step forward. Keith stood his ground, even with flared nostrils staring him down, and stale rum and coke breath making his nose wrinkle. “Cause I’m spending a mint on you, and I plan to get what I pay for.”   
  
Alexander stepped closer, lips a breath away from Keith’s and curled into something wretched. His arm reached around to grab a fist full of Keith's ass, digging his nails into the polyester of his romper.   
  
“Think you can start playing nice, Babydoll?”   
  
“I have a goddamn name.” Keith placed a hand square on Alexanders chest, pushing him as far away as his arms would stretch, black coated fingertips still resting in the center of his body. Sure he could bring up the crescent moon imprints in asscheek, or the clear violation of his ‘contract’. (don’t touch the goods, no happy endings, don’t be grade-a douchebag.)   
  
But at least give him his fucking identity.   
  
“Wrong move, Angel.” Alexander yanked Keith by the forearm, gripping it like the chain to a wild junkyard dog. Keith grit his teeth, but made no move to resist. Not yet. He thinned his eyes, keeping a laser-precise gaze on Alexander’s sneer.   
  
“You think I won’t hit you? It’s not like you're actually a girl. You were supposed to show me a nice time tonight, and you’ve been nothing but a pain in my ass. I don’t like having my time wasted.” He twisted his hateful smirk to show his tongue running over his top row of teeth. He opened his mouth, spitting the next word like acid. “ _Baby_.”

If there was one skill Keith had, for better or worse, it was to make a god damn scene.   
  
Keith threw the highball glass to the ground, shattering into diamond shards and pink waves onto the already sticky bar floor. The music still thumped throughout the club, but the chatter fizzled into mere murmurs. Someone tugging their friend shoulder to check it out, and girls scrabbling for their iPhones in acrylic nails.   
  
“So you want people to see me lay you out? Fine by me, I ain't got performan-” Alexander swallowed the words with a wet grunt, as Keith ground his stiletto right into his gut. He didn’t wait for even a beat to headbutt right in his solar plexus. Alexander sputtered, stumbling back. Some wetness landed on Keith’s cheek, and he was sure this was smudging his make up. It took forever to put on. What a waste.

Keith’s heels sounded like thunder as he chased him down to grab the scruff of his hair. Keith yanked his head close enough to feel the heat of frantic labored breathing damp against his neck. Keith leaned in, slow and poised.

“You leave now, and I won’t call the cops.” Keith murmured, soft against his ear. “Understand?”   
  
Alexander coughed up a strangled noise - he was cognizant, and hadn’t learned his lesson. Keith slammed him to the ground with a dense thud and took a step away from him as if he reeked of day old trash. Keith cleared his throat.   
  
“And don’t you dare try and touch me again!” he yelled, loud enough for half the club to hear. He saw the grimaces of the snapback boys, almost sheepish in the corner of his eyes. More obviously the sympathetic eyes from girls, over pronounced with pointy lashes and cat eyeliner.   
  
Alexander twitched on the ground, every muscle pulsating as he struggled to a knee. He grunted, crazed eyes focused on Keith.   
  
“Dude, she said to leave her alone. Back off!” A voice echoed from across the room.   
  
“I’m gonna go get the bouncer!”

The mania in Alexander's eyes flipped like a switch to panic, darting back and forth trying to center himself in the melting pot of angry voices that was rolling to a boil. Watery eyes stared back up at Keith who whispered two words to him, over pronounced and tightly framed in blood red lipstick.   
  
“ _Fuck. Off._ ”

Alexander spat on the ground, in muddy pink, as he strained himself upright. He limped away, arms hugged around his middle and jaw welded shut. People whooped, and cheered and the dance floor was resuscitated, pulsating and sweating.

Keith was on life support, and wanted to find somewhere to close his eyes.

But the image of rotting, alone in his bed, shredded his emotions into ribbon working into a taut sailors knot that tightened the airflow to his brain. Keith grimaced. He heard the clinking of glass on glass and turned to see the bar back sweeping up the corpse of his vile cocktail. And, well yeah. He could really use a fucking drink.   
  
Keith squeezed his way to the center of the bar, perfectly fine to be lost in the noise of everyones conversations. Just be a face in the crowd, grab a drink, and he’d figure the rest out.   
  
“Hey, Bartender,” Keith yelled out. Which, being on the other side of the bar, he knew was annoying as all hell. But Keith was low on patience and the woman behind the bar in the low cut top seemed to _get it_ anyways.   
  
“Can I get a-” Keith stopped, words evaporating off the tip of his tongue as she placed a frosty, short Old Fashioned glass delicately in front of Keith, right on top of a cocktail napkin. He stared, fascinated, at the oversized ice cube floating in the amber whiskey.  He sympathized with the orb rolling in place and wasting away. He only found the will to look up at her again once a drop of the ices sweat slid all the way down into the liquid.   
  
“From the gentleman at the end of the bar,” she explained, voice steady but unable to hide the growing smile on her lips. Keith knew exactly what he’d see at the end of the bar. Whether it was fate or luck, whatever weaved Keith’s universe together, it was the only thing he knew for certain.   
  
His heart skipped a beat, anyways.

Shiro looked ethereal as he waved a small curled hand to Keith. The club lights danced over him, painting a kaleidoscope prism on his perfectly coiffed hair. He looked effortless, like he was made to be here. Black jeans that looked worn in and a t-shirt with the sleeves rolled up that framed his biceps like they were hung in the fucking Louvre. He waved again, hesitantly, hovering over his own whiskey that was tan with water. He looked at Keith with heavy eyes, hard to read with fluctuating lights. Keith wanted to call it something like longing, or wistfulness. But Keith couldn’t lie to himself. Not anymore. Shiro looked like he was staring a ghost.   
  
And Keith wasn’t dead yet.

He fisted his drink and took a long, purposeful stride toward Shiro. Keith walked with dominion. Drinkers and dancers parted themselves like he was Moses, and Shiro was his freedom. Shiro must’ve noticed because his lips curled into something mischievous. It reminded Keith of Southern Cuts and starry nights.   
  
It was easy to slide right next to Shiro, on a matching bar stool, so much easier than sleepless nights and churning stomach made it out to be. He looked up to Shiro, and he could feel his smile on each end of his face.   
  
“You got my favorite,” Keith said, bringing the glass to his cherry lips.   
  
“I know.” Shiro smiled in a way that made Keith aware of his blood rushing through his veins, the air in his lungs and any other sign of life. “It’s probably not as good as yours.”   
  
“Shut up.” Keith's laugh was acidic. “You’re not wrong though.” His eyes swam laps around the bottom of his glass. It’s funny, only now he realized that going in circles got him nowhere. “You wanna try?”

He studied Shiro’s face as he held out the glass, glittering under the club lights. Shiro looked somewhere between stunned and perplexed, gradually melting into something so much softer. A smile that made Shiro look so much younger than he actually was. He reached out for the glass with a sweaty palm and enjoyed a languid draught from the glass. Keith was fascinated in the roll of the muscles in his throat.

“It’s good.” Shiro handed the glass back to Keith. “Now I know what yours is up against.” Shiro took a swig of his own drink, tapping his finger erratically against the glass.   
  
“Are you okay? I mean, you’re clearly okay but- God.” Shiro ran a frustrated hand through his hair. Keith blinked at him, owl-like. “That guy was a creep.”   
  
Oh.   
  
“I’m okay,” Keith said. “My adrenaline’s chilling out. I kinda wanted to keep fighting him.”   
  
“Keith.” Shiro’s brows furrowed, his tone was hard as granite.   
  
“I _didn’t,_ Dad.” Keith rolled his eyes, watching Shiro grow flustered at the barb. Hair mussed and cheeks pink wasn’t a bad a look for him.   
  
“So....” Shiro rubbed his neck, and it was always amusing to see him flustered. It was those small facets of insecurity, or rather humanity, that made Shiro shine as brightly as he does. “Was that your boyfriend, or...”   
  
“God, Shiro, no. No.” Keith didn't let the word hang in the air longer than it had to, the thought so humiliating he felt warmth in the tips of his ears. “It was a first date. And a last one.”

“I’m gonna be honest. It was hard to watch him touch you.” The words were as strong and bitter as the bottom shelf whiskey Shiro was nursing. He twisted his mouth like he could still taste them, even though he freed them into the ether of the club.   
  
Keith bit his lip. “How long were you watching?”   
  
Shiro rubbed the back of his neck, sweating like the glass wrapped in his fingers.

  
“It’s hard not to notice you anywhere. You command a room.” Shiro spoke like his words were lyrics, like each syllable ached with longing. They made Keith’s chest tight with his own ache.

“And well, you look really nice tonight, Keith. I like the-” Shiro pointed a finger, tracing a line up and down Keith’s body and circling his face. “The whole look. It suits you.”

  
Keith’s face flared to a broiling heat that he thought might cook him alive. He squeezed his glass, staring at the ice cube like it was a magic 8 ball that could give him advice, or anything.   
  
“Thanks,” Keith mumbled, more to the glass than to Shiro. “I’m surprised you didn’t pry him off of me.”   
  
“I wanted to.” Shiro laughed, self-deprecating. “But it wasn’t my fight. One of the hardest things I’ve learned to do was learn to be patient, especially with myself.” Shiro looked into Keith’s eyes, words like an arrow to a target. It’s a look that would grow a lump in his throat, but Shiro made them seem like a challenge.

“Patience, huh.” Keith laughed, laced with something sharp.

“You can really handle yourself out there.” Shiro smirked like he had a secret. “Remind me not to get on your bad side.”   
  
“Fucking stop it.” Keith laughed as Shiro nudged him with his shoulders, smiling wide enough to make the corners of eyes crinkle.   
  
A guitar riff like a whip snapped through the air, like it was trying to call him specifically. Keith recognized it in notes, and his stiletto tapped in time with the drumsticks all on its own. The Shiro-infected smile still on his face stretched so far it made his checks burn. Keith couldn’t tame it if he wanted to. He knew Shiro was grinning just like him and just the idea, the photo negative of Shiro’s smile branded into his mind, left him eager for it. He turned up to Shiro wordlessly.   
  
He was beaming like a schoolboy.   
  
Shiro tried to snuff his smile by biting his bottom lip, his face flush with boyish charm. He couldn’t hold it long breaking out into a smile, all teeth.   
  
“It’s your song.”

Shiro, smiling underneath the lights and the music, making his blood run feverish with need.

_Patience._

Keith strained every fiber of his being to shut out his surroundings. No more clinking of glasses, or the racket of everyone screaming over each other to be heard. He focused on the only things that mattered to him. He draped his senses in blackout curtains. Muffled and dull, the club was miles away.But Shiro’s every breath was damn near deafening, and his fingertips on his thigh felt like they were filled with pent-up static energy. Even with eyes closed, all he can see is Shiro.

Keith thinks he gets it. The unchained smile started to feel at home on his face, despite the burn in his cheeks. Any confusion or apprehension was a distant memory, and all was left was tightly coiled joy aching to be sprung into action.  
  
“You wanna dance?” His voice sounded foreign in his throat. It sent jolts of excitement through his veins.   
  
Shiro blinked, but Keith could see the star shimmer glint in his eyes. Before anything could pass through Shiro’s lips, Keith took him by the wrist and dragged him toward the dance floor. He weaved effortlessly between the sea of moving bodies until they were directly under the prism of lights, where he could see Shiro best - under the spotlight he deserves.

[ _You've got your mother in a whirl_ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U16Xg_rQZkA)

[ _She's not sure if you're a boy or a girl_ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U16Xg_rQZkA)

[ _Hey babe, your hair's alright_ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U16Xg_rQZkA)

[ _Hey babe, let's go out tonight_ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U16Xg_rQZkA)

Keith wasn’t a dancer, it wasn't his scene, but the addictive hook had his body on marionette strings like it was as vital as breathing. It gave Keith a kind of high he had never experienced before - nothing like what their abandoned whiskey had ever done for him. He laughed like a child on a carnival ride, hands thrown up in the sheer thrill of it.

It was impossible not to be totally blissed out, watching Shiro move his body as naturally as ocean waves. Keith followed his motions, swimming with his current and letting Shiro take him where he needed to be. It was easy, their hips moving in tempo to the drum beats, completely synchronized. Shiro knew exactly when to reach out an arm, and Keith was ready for fingertips grazing up and down his arms. Keith recalled stiff ballroom dancing, every muscle in his body so tight he thought he’d turn himself inside out, or being at clubs just like this, needing thrice the liquor so he wouldn’t remember even stepping foot on the dancefloor.

Nothing like this.

He grabbed at Shiro the same way, letting his nails rake over every part of skin he could reach. Shiro pulled him close, Keith rubbed his hands down his back, hot with pent-up need. It reminded Keith of cheap scratch-offs he grabbed at the gas station. He’d get his nails all gunked up with foil, desperate for whatever prize was underneath. Like he didn’t already know the Shiro underneath his skin.

He never ached for the parts when someone would catch him before. Not like this. Keith was already addicted to Shiro’s woodsy cologne, and he craved it more than anything that’s ever burned his lungs. Bold from the contact high, Keith rest his hand on Shiro’s jawline and clung to Shiro, just a second longer than he knows he should, But he needed more, more, more of Shiro.

[ _You like me, and I like it all_ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U16Xg_rQZkA)

[ _We like dancing and we look divine_ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U16Xg_rQZkA)

[ _You love bands when they're playing hard_ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U16Xg_rQZkA)

[ _You want more and you want it fast_ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U16Xg_rQZkA)

[ _They put you down, they say I'm wrong_ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U16Xg_rQZkA)

[ _You tacky thing, you put them on_ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U16Xg_rQZkA)

Shiro pulled away, fingers laced with Keith's. It was hard to mourn the loss when he’d catch Shiro’s voice, in harmony with Bowie’s tenor. He was performing, just for Keith or maybe himself. Keith wanted to say it was a shame, that the world was missing out on this. Shiro was a lightning bolt, a one in a million phenomenon coursing with unchained energy. Keith would take the miracle to his grave. This wasn’t Black Lion, this wasn’t a rock god persona, cool in front of a crowd.

This; this was just Shiro. Nothing more.

It filled Keith’s chest with something warm and light that made him grasp Shiro’s hand tighter just to feel his pulse. Keith used the beat of Shiro’s body as a metronome, matched his rhythm as he moved and twirled around him. And never once did he break eye contact. He couldn’t. Shiro’s smile was dazzling under the club lights. It gave Keith all the courage to sing with Shiro.

[ _Rebel Rebel, you've torn your dress_ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U16Xg_rQZkA)

[ _Rebel Rebel, your face is a mess_ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U16Xg_rQZkA)

[ _Rebel Rebel, how could they know?_ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U16Xg_rQZkA)

[ _Hot tramp, I love you so!_ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U16Xg_rQZkA)

Keith blinked, honing in his surroundings. He was gone again, far away from this club or even this town, and for god knows how long. He had no idea how he wrapped his sweaty arms around Shiro and his body pressed to his heaving chest.

Shiro wasn’t singing anymore, and neither of them were dancing. Shiro gazed down at Keith like he was holding something rare and precious. Keith wondered if he was looking at Shiro the same way like he was carved out of diamond. Keith let his eyes close, but only for a moment.

He found his focus.   
  
There was no one else in this club. Just music, and Shiro’s breathing. Keith thought, perhaps, things could always be just that. Patience worked in different ways, and maybe it wasn’t Keith's strong suit, but he was getting better at sorting through the bullshit. Even tonight.

Keith smeared every face away in the club into neon makeup swatches and Shiro’s touch felt so much _more_ than his throbbing bruises from before. Keith could quell the smell of sweat and too-sweet liquor and only leave Kenneth Cole Black. Bowie’s voice was fading out, and Shiro’s baritone was the only thing left.

And maybe, that’s all Keith needed.  
  
Keith tilted his head up to Shiro, childlike. He was drenched, white tufts of hair sweat-matted against his forehead. It shouldn’t be sexy. It had no business being sexy. But his eyes were half-lidded and, and there was something so charming about his lopsided smile. Keith wondered if Shiro could ever look bad when he smiled.

Shiro’s singing like a war cry that echoed in Keith’s heart. He rose onto the balls of his feet to meet Shiro eye to eye. He draped his arms around Shiro’s neck effortlessly, fitting on him better than any worn leather jacket could. Without the weight of the world suffocating him, Keith leaned up to slot his lips over Shiro’s and shared his breath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Foxy, Ash, Tori and Cat for listening to me whine about this until they could help me get to where I want it. Cat is an MVP for reading this chapter into many states of disarray lmao.

**Author's Note:**

> [Chat with me on Tumblr!](http://voxane.tumblr.com/) | [Enjoy some mood music with my Spotify Playlist!](https://open.spotify.com/user/1211290969/playlist/10SUfFZLhdSbhu40neeXLl)
> 
> Special thanks to The Stupid Idiots and the Club for Crappy Jerks of for holding my hand through this and being A+ Betas. I love you guys.


End file.
